


1626, Eldridge Street

by Lennelle, SPNxBookworm, WinchesterPooja (chronic_potterphile)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Amnesiac Sam, Angst, Anxiety, BAMF Ellen, Big Brother Dean, Brotherly Love, Caring Dean Winchester, Castiel is a Good Friend, Christmas, Christmas Miracles, Crying Sam Winchester, Dean Hates Christmas, Dean is a Little Shit, Death, Destiel if You Wanna Squint That Way, Detective Castiel, Dissociation, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hugs, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mostly Gen, Murder, Murder Mystery, Non-Hunter Winchesters, POV Sam Winchester, Pain, Panic Attack Descriptions, Panic Attacks, Pre-med Dean, Repressed Memories, Romance is not a huge subplot, Sadness, Sam Winchester Big Bang 2016, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Sam is a Sweetheart, Sam's Hair, Sam-Centric, Suicide Attempt, Suspense, Teacher Sam, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:52:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SPNxBookworm/pseuds/SPNxBookworm, https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronic_potterphile/pseuds/WinchesterPooja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Going away for the holidays, Sam?"</i>
</p><p><i>"Yeah. My brother and I are taking a road trip to Kansas. We grew up in Lawrence."</i> </p><p>What was supposed to be a light, fun reunion with some old family friends over the holidays turns into something worse for Sam and Dean when their past creeps up on them. Sam realises there are things tucked away in his mind that he doesn't want to remember. Unfortunately, when it comes to this particular train-wreck, there might not be a way out of it for either him or Dean.</p><p>This is Sam's journey through rediscovering himself, his family, and a little bit of love. Most importantly, this is Sam's journey through finding his Christmas miracle.</p><p>[AU fic with Art TA!Sam and pre-med!Dean]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Five Days to Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there’s a bunch of people we’d like to express our sincere thanks and gratitude to, without whom this fic probably wouldn’t even exist. 
> 
> Big thank you to our awesome, awesome artist – [boykvngs](http://boykvngs.tumblr.com/) – who is a freaking angel. We freaked out when we realized she’d claimed our fic and let's just say we had many late night squealing and fangirling over her amazing art. Thank you so much for giving us a chance, love! Art post is [here](http://boykvngs.tumblr.com/post/139983062983/1626-eldridge-street-illustrations-you-can-read)
> 
> Huge, huge thank you to our fellow musketeer, wifey and beta for this fic – [Naila/iamremy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/) – who was a ninja in betaing this and getting it to us in legit lightning speed. You are so freaking awesome, love! We loves you! 
> 
> Finally, thank you to the amazing mods over at [sammybigbang](http://sammybigbang.livejournal.com/) for conducting and working their asses off to make this big bang happen, and for letting us show our eternal love for Sammy. You guys are rock stars!
> 
> And to the rest of you: hope you enjoy this fic! Please read the trigger warnings at the top, in the tags. :)

 

** **

 

 

**_Creighton University_ **

**_Omaha, Nebraska_ **

The hustle and bustle on the college lawns is something that Sam will always love, he realises as he hurries along to Professor Evans's office. It's cold today, the sunlight weak and unsteady as it tries to breach the winter air. Sam shivers a little, folding his scarf tighter around his neck. He pushes up his glasses as the office building comes into view, and quickens his pace, boots crunching on frostbitten grass. It's getting colder and colder here. He was due to meet Evans five minutes ago but one of his students had stopped him, asking him about submission dates for their holiday assignments.

"Sam," Diane had called out while she ran to catch up with him, boots scuffing against the frost. "Can you tell me what the prof expects?" He'd looked back at her questioningly and she shrugged. "I got a B minus on the last assignment. I never understood what was wrong."

She's a bad painter but Sam doesn't have the heart to tell her that. "I, uh, I'm getting late," he had said. "How about I meet you in ten?"

"Cool, at the café down the road?"

"Okay," he had said in the hurry that he was in, and now as he huffs his breath out in little mists, he wonders if it's appropriate for a TA to be seen with a student like that, publicly. He doesn't normally care what people think, but this girl, Diane, has a history of trying to get Sam into coffee meetings here and there. Sam's always graciously managed to dodge each and every one of them, much to his brother's amusement.

Anyway. This is the last time...

He pushes those thoughts away as he enters the office building, wiping his damp boots on the doormat and hoisting his bag up on his shoulder as he carries on. He pauses outside the professor's office to fish for his hair tie and pull his long hair into a half-bun, shaking off the stray strands that fall into his eyes. Then he knocks at the door.

"Come in," Evans's tired voice says, and Sam lets himself in, pushing his hair out of his eyes again. He sits down on the chair before the professor, who smiles at him. "Going away for the holidays, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam replies. "My brother and I are taking a road trip to Kansas. We grew up in Lawrence." Dean's driving in from Lincoln, stopping at their place to pick up Sam's stuff, and is due to arrive at the college at any moment now. They're going straight to Lawrence from here because they have to be there by evening for Ellen's fiftieth birthday party. Sam smiles as he recalls how excited and happy Ellen had sounded knowing they'd be there in a few hours.

 _"_ _Sam! Good to hear from you. How are you doing, sweetie?" The joy in Ellen's voice is so evident, Sam can't help smiling himself._

 _"_ _I'm fine. How about you?"_

 _"_ _I'm great, honey. Though it's always nice to see your name flash on my phone. Dean told me you two were coming down for the holidays."_

 _"_ _Yeah," Sam says. "Yeah. We want to."_

 _"_ _Normally, I'd ask you both to get your asses here without any exceptions but…" her voice softens, "you sure you're up to this? I mean, if that big brother of yours is forcing you—"_

 _"_ _Dean didn't force me," Sam tells her. "Come on, Ellen! It's your fiftieth this year."_

_She hesitates. "Well, that's true."_

_"_ _Aw, I'll be fine." Sam's heart is full at the knowledge that she cares so much. "You're being worse than Dean."_

_She sighs. "I just worry about you boys sometimes. All right, then, hurry over. And drive safe. I'll see you in a few days. Take care. And send my love to Dean as well, sweetie."_

_"_ _Will do, Ellen. Love you, too," he says as he hangs up._

"That sounds nice." Evans's voice cuts into Sam's wandering thoughts. He blinks up at the professor, smiling and pushing back the memory of his talk with Ellen. Meanwhile, Evans pushes forward a stack of papers. "If it's not too much, would you mind grading the assignments for me over the holidays? I'll take a look at them too, but tell me what you think first."

Sam was sure he's going to have to grade all the critical analyses assignments even before he entered, but he doesn't care. He's done this a million times. Dean thinks he goes easy on the students but Sam thinks they deserve a break.

Diane is just a bad painter, though. Sam wonders if she'll ever realise that.

"You have enough brain matter up there to do that crazy course that got you a BA and a JD, dude, and you can't figure out how to tell this Diane girl that she's shit at painting?" Dean had asked him.

"She's a good girl, Dean, she'll get upset."

"Did she ask you out to coffee again?"

"No, she wanted to—"

"She wants to bang you."

"No."

"Against the wall, on her bed..."

"Shut up, asshole," Sam had replied, groaning.  
  
Sam shakes himself out of his reverie again, amused, and listens to Evans explain about when he needs the grades in.

"Send it to me once you're back from holidays. If the students have questions—"

"They have my email address with them. I'll send them to you if it's something big."

"Good, that will do."

"Okay, sir," Sam says to him. "I'll have these graded then." Evans is a good man, but he's _lazy_ , and Sam hates grading papers.

 _Last time, Sam, last time_ , he reminds himself. _Hopefully_.

"Thank you," Evans says as Sam shoulders the strap on his bag again, taking off his glasses and hanging them down the neck of his sweater vest. He pretty much needs them all the time, but he likes taking them off now and then, much to Dean's chagrin, who comes after him like a giant, curmudgeon old mom. _"Sammy, just wear your fucking glasses. You want it to get worse?"_

Sam chuckles to himself as he opens the door and walks out. His eyesight isn't really _that_ bad. And the ends of the glasses sometimes hurt his ears if he wears them too long. Dean still won't leave him alone, though.

Just as Sam heads out into the open, Dean calls him. _Oh, speak of the devil._ Sam picks up the phone. "Hey, you here?"

"Outside your college," says Dean. "Where are you?"

"I was meeting with Evans. I'll be at the gates in five."

"Okay."

Sam disconnects the call and texts Diane.

 **Sam [3:19 PM]  
** Hey, got to rush. On a tight schedule. Email questions.

He's just about to pocket it, when his phone pings. It's a reply from Diane. _Wow, that was fast._ He can imagine her at the café, phone in hand and frowning at his text.

 **Diane T [3:19 PM]  
** Ok ill mail. Same id? :)

 **Sam [3:20 PM]  
** Yes

He takes a last look at the college building and heads towards the gates where he easily spots the familiar black Impala. He can feel a grin build on his face as he hurries. He gets the glasses back on before Dean can start complaining and lecturing him again just so they can pick up a fight over something stupid and ruin the next few hours of their journey.

Sam is excited and yet scared about this trip. He and Dean haven't been to Lawrence in ten years, ever since their father died in a hit and run. Sam doesn't remember much of it, and if he is being honest with himself he doesn't think he wants to. Dean had taken him to therapists and the words _repressed memories_ and _dissociative amnesia_ had been repeated time and again, as well as the allusion to the fact that Sam would eventually recollect it all, and that it was likely to cause him great distress when he did. Sam also carries another souvenir from that day, and he palms his wrists absently as he thinks of it.

Dean, however, wasn't taking chances with "Sam" and "distress" being in the same sentence. So he had got them both here, to Omaha, where Sam eventually felt better, isolated from the unknown darkness of bad memories. He finished high school and started going to college after, working part-time at the very cafeteria Diane was waiting for him at, while Dean took up a job as an assistant in an orthopaedic clinic. It did not take long for Sam, and Dean's boss, Dr Ryder, to realise that Dean was really taking to physical therapy.

At the insistence of Sam and Dr Ryder, Dean now attends college at Lincoln as a pre-med. And boy, is Sam proud of him. He remembers the disbelief that had been on Dean's face on realising he'd gotten accepted into college. He remembers how nervous Dean had been when applying to his chosen colleges, convinced that he was not going to make it. That Sam and his boss expected too much of him. Sam recalls going out to collect mail one day and seeing the envelope. When he'd handed it to Dean, his face had gone pale.

"Open it. Whatever happens, I know it's gonna be good."

"How can you be so sure?" Dean had asked, hands shaking as they'd held the envelope.

"Because I know you. And I know you're gonna do great things."

Dean been uncertain about being able to handle it but Sam knew he could do it. He was _Dean_ , after all. The same Dean who was the fiercest, kindest, most hardworking, and most protective person that Sam knew. Dean read. He didn't show it off but he picked up on a whole world of things and he knew stuff no one would ever expect him to. Sam's big brother was capable of doing anything he set his mind to.

Dean had lost grip of the envelope as soon as he opened it, jaw dropping and staying that way as he stared wide-eyed at the letter. _"What the fuck?"_

Sam had looked at him in concern. Did he not make it? No, no. Of course there were other colleges and – and… but…

Sam wrung his hands, feeling as nervous as his brother looked up at him. _"What? What does it say?"_

 _"_ _I made it. Sammy, I fucking made it."_

In that moment, Sam didn't think he was ever going to forget the mixture of happiness and disbelief that had been etched onto Dean's face. In fact, it's always going to be one of Sam's treasured memories, and he still thinks of it when he feels down.

Burying the memory back into his happy place, Sam approaches the Impala, taps at the glass, and waves at his brother when Dean reaches to unlock it.

"Hey," Dean greets him, handing over a cup of Starbucks when Sam takes his place on the passenger seat. He glances at Sam pulling his scarf off and throwing it in the backseat. "You ready to go?"

Sam takes the coffee, no weepy greetings or hugs. They meet every fucking weekend, and Dean even comes over when his college is off early. A lot, basically. Not that this doesn't make Sam crave Dean's company again, though. He just will never say it out loud.

They were living together until Dean left for college last fall and Sam liked having his brother around. Dean's always been his source of everything that defines _home_. Sam didn't realise how much he'd look forward to his brother being around until after Dean left. Usually, Sam would come back from college, and Dean would be there either bustling around in the kitchen or lounging across the couch watching some random show that Sam doesn't really care about.

Now, it was all the weekends, but also, well, _only_ usually weekends.

He'd gotten used to listening to Dean's loud snoring from the other room. Had gotten used to dirty laundry and dirty dishes and leftover takeout spoiling his mood. He didn't think he'd ever actually _wish_ for the usual teasing or arguments they'd have just because they're brothers.

Even though Dean does come over a lot while still teasing Sam over the phone or texts, it's different with them living their own separate lives. It feels weirdly lonely around the apartment without his brother now.

And no. Again, Sam will never admit that to Dean. Although, yes, he does wish that everything could return to what it was like before Dean left. He has a solution to that, now, and he wonders what Dean will think.

"What ya ponderin' on about?" Dean asks him at that moment. Sam's been wandering away with his thoughts a lot today, it seems.

He turns to Dean. "Nothing."

His brother doesn't question it; just gives him a shrug, and Sam drinks the coffee as Dean jams the key into the ignition. The car purrs alive and Dean pats the steering once. "Off to Lawrence then!" he announces. Sam rolls his eyes.

He knows the enthusiasm is Dean's way of dealing with going back to Lawrence. He kind of appreciates it because right now, apart from the excitement of seeing his extended family again, he feels this weird sense of foreboding. He hates it.

He doesn't tell Dean about the strange fear, however. It's probably irrational anyway. "Off to Lawrence."

They pull away into the street and Sam watches Creighton's gates in the rear view mirror until they disappear from view, wondering if this is goodbye after all.

 

 

**~o~**

 

Lawrence is a little more than three hours away from Omaha. Sam gets his gloves and sweater off and folds his glasses into their case somewhere along the way, ignoring Dean staring at him the whole time. It's pleasantly warm inside the car with the heater on. Dean and AC/DC make  
it even better, and Sam feels himself relax, despite the not-good feeling brewing in his chest as they get closer and closer to Lawrence.

"So, fingerless gloves," Dean remarks with a whistle. "Is it just me or are you incapable of being cool without having me around?"

"Fingerless gloves aren't uncool. Just drive," Sam scoffs at him.

"If you say so." Dean cracks a shit-eating grin, seemingly at the windshield. "And why aren't you wearing your glasses now?"

"Don't wanna."

"Sammy, they're for your own good."

"I know."

"Then wear them."

Sam wants to retort and rebel. _Old, curmudgeon mom,_ he thinks, and tries not to snigger as he puts the glasses back on and rests against his seat. He is, however, annoyed at Dean's teasing and mother-henning already, and it's only been a couple of hours.

Dean turns and looks again at the fingerless gloves, makes an indecipherable sound, and sets his eyes back on the road. There is a smirk on his face.

"Dean." Sam feels like a five-year-old, cranky and irritated at his big brother. "Stop."

"What, I'm not doing anything!"

"You're smiling."

"So I can't be happy now? Jeez, princess, okay."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and chooses to stare out of the window. He usually doesn't care about Dean ribbing him, but he can't take it right now and he doesn't know why. As Lawrence gets closer, something about having to be back there is really riling Sam up, flushing away most of the excitement he had been feeling.

He ignores it. Ellen and Bobby are always visiting him and Dean at Nebraska, and the only reason they're going back is that it's Ellen's fiftieth. Bobby has a party for her and all. Although, how someone as ornery as Bobby fits in the same sentence as "party", Sam will never figure out. He probably did it at Jo's insistence. She studies in Minnesota and she must have got time off college too.

Point being, Ellen is like a surrogate Mom. Bobby was their dad's friend, as a good as an uncle to Sam and Dean, and this is the least they can do for them, even if Ellen mentioned that they didn't have to. Sam would also be very happy to see them again, anyway, so he reckons this situation can't really go sideways by all that much.

"What's up with you?" Dean asks Sam suddenly, narrowing his eyes at the winding roads ahead of them. The sun is still pretty weak, melting snow lining the sides of the roads as they drive on.

Sam squints his brother. "Nothing. I'm good."

"Sure you are."

The conversation stops there. Dean always knows, but Sam's not about to ruin it all by talking about his apprehensions this time. He's always ruined Dean's fun enough in the last ten years.

He thinks of one of his Christmas gifts for Dean and wonders if his brother will like it, because Dean hates Christmas. But maybe he won't be so unkind about it this time, now that they're going back to where they grew up. Doesn't change the fact that their dad, John, died on Christmas Eve, though.

It's why they stopped celebrating. It's too painful for Dean, knowing their dad was killed during that time, and again, Sam can't remember that. Sam thinks they should move on, but what would he know? His mind and his repressed memories proved to everyone that Sam's a pro at forgetting the bad stuff and getting ahead with life.

At least, that's what Sam perceives it as. Dean still thinks Sam is capable of breaking at the drop of a hat.

And Sam looks at the two long, vertical scars on his wrists, and absently rubs them again thinking that maybe he _is_ that weak.

Sam doesn't know he's fallen asleep until the sound of laughter wakes him up. He startles awake and then yawns as he looks around, immediately leaning forward when he notices their surroundings. They're in Lawrence.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" Dean calls out from his side and Sam yawns again, blinking at his brother.

"Dude," he says, "you could have woken me up. You didn't have to drive the whole way."

Dean shrugs. "You looked like you needed the sleep. Besides, it's just a three-hour drive and I'm fine."

Sam sighs as he decides to stare out the window, drinking the scenery in while Dean drives them. It's snowing. He watches, mesmerized, as the little flakes fall delicately to the ground, remembering how as a kid he used to run outside at the first sign of snow and stand in the cold with his mouth open, hoping to catch a snowflake on his tongue. Dean had thought he was being an idiot but Sam loved it. He doesn't have any such memories from Omaha, though, because he was already seventeen when they moved there. Out there, Sam looks at snow more like hindrance than actual fun, and he wonders how his brain can categorise the same thing into two different memories with completely different associated emotions.

"Wait for me, Amy!"

Sam turns towards the voice and sees a girl, looking no older than eight chasing another girl, hand extended. Behind them, a couple walks, looking fondly at the girls with the mother pushing a stroller with their third child in it. One of her arms is interlinked with the man's, and Sam smiles.

"Fucking snow," Dean grumbles as he turns on the wipers.

"And that surprises you because…?"

"Doesn't surprise me. Doesn't mean I have to like it either," Dean snaps back. Dean always associates snow with Christmas and hates it just as much anywhere in the world, so Sam doesn't push.

He looks out the window again, admiring the tinsel and lights donning the trees lining the street. He watches as a bunch of kids flock over to a burly man dressed in a Santa Claus outfit, handing out candy and cookies.

This is why he loves Christmas. It's the idea of giving. Of love. Of family and friends coming together and having a great time together. Of warmth and memories and safety.

But he hasn't celebrated Christmas in a decade, just like Dean hasn't either.

He sighs, hoping that somehow this year they might actually celebrate, and for this Christmas to be better than the ones before. Then he settles on just staring at nothing in particular, watching old memories fly by as they drive deeper and deeper into Lawrence.

Some of Sam's other earliest memories are invoked when they drive by a park filled with slides, swings, monkey bars. He smiles, recalling when John used to bring him and Dean there. It was also Dean that had taught Sam how to get across the monkey bars. Sam had fallen off and split his chin once, needing stitches on it.

God, he had cried so much on the way to the ER.

He grimaces at the memory and sits back, staring out through the front windshield now. They passed the park so Sam knows they're not far from Eldridge Street, where their home is located.

 _"_ _1626, Eldridge Street."_

The familiar voice and the very thought of the address brings back the foreboding sense of fear in Sam's gut, but he ignores it. He doesn't want to make this trip any more awkward or difficult than it already has the potential of being. They're here for Ellen and to have a lot of fun, and that's all he's going to think about.

"We're here," Dean says, voice low. Sam looks out at the houses lining Eldridge Street on both sides. A few of them already have lights hanging at the windows, tinsel decorated trees outside and large lights embedded into the ground which Sam knows will create different patterns and light up the life-sized reindeers and Santa Clauses decorating the yards.

He hopes it will look just as pretty as he imagines. Maybe, if Dean is up to it, they can go house watching on Christmas.

Dean pulls up into the driveway of their house and turns off the ignition. They look at each other and take a deep breath before getting out of the car. Sam doesn't turn back; he dares not look, and he knows Dean is ignoring their neighbouring house too.

_1626, Eldridge Street._

**~o~**

Ellen and Bobby really meant it when they said they tried to make Sam and Dean's childhood home as livable as possible. The lawn is mown. The porch is clean and the windows have been washed. The flower bed that used to be there around the lamppost near the stoop is gone, though. Sam can remember watering it every morning and feels a forlorn sadness grip his stomach. He misses all that.

The inside of the house is musty but good, and Ellen and Bobby have clearly worked hard on it. There are supplies in the kitchen, the floors have been vacuumed and the bad heating in the living room is compensated with freshly cut wood near the fireplace.

The house is still pretty bare, though, with the minimal furniture they'd left behind.

Sam runs his hands over the walls, listening to Dean's laughter as they'd chased each other around as children. To covering the stairs in cardboard slabs and sliding down them. To their dad telling them not to get hurt. Of watching TV together on weekends and of movie nights. Of talking endlessly into the night in their shared room after their parents were asleep.

They eventually had their own rooms as they'd grown up but sharing rooms with Dean had been fun. Except when Dean decided to recite those God-awful ghost stories at fuck o'clock. They gave Sam nightmares. _Not fun_.

Sam enters his bedroom puts his shoulder bag on his bed which is neatly covered in fresh sheets, and thinks of Dean or Dad carrying him back when he was little and fell asleep on the couch. A few years later, Dean would haul Sam here and put him to sleep on the nights that Sam came back drunk. He thinks of Dean or John sleeping on this floor when he was sick, and his brother slinking in for late-night poker or in rare circumstances, a heart-to-heart. He opens the closet and shoves his stuff in, remembering staring at his clothes and wondering what to wear for the first time in his life when he'd gone on a date.

Sam remembers the first time he got a girl home. He'd been sixteen and Dad had been away for the weekend. Dean was at Cas's place with the rest of their friends.

Her name was Emily. Sam had kissed her in the living room and they'd come up here and it was the weirdest, most awkward experience in Sam's life, to lose his virginity. They'd dated four months after that, before Emily broke it off saying she liked someone else.

He's taken back to the time when he'd sulked in his room, teary-eyed and hurt. Emily had been special. And at that point, Sam didn't know what he did wrong for her to have left him like that. Dean had always been there for him when he needed it and he had come to Sam's rescue after this breakup too. They'd sat in this very room as Dean had consoled him.

 _"_ _Sammy?" Dean calls out, entering Sam's room._

_Sam ignores him, hugging his knees closer to his chest. Why would Emily do that? Did he hurt her? Say something wrong? Did he screw up?_

_The bed dips to one side as Dean sits down next to Sam, feet stretched out in front of him._

_"_ _You wanna talk?" Dean asks._

_Sam shakes his head, sniffing. His mind is still trying to figure out what he messed up, but he honestly can't think of anything. He has been good to her, and she'd always been good too, and it had seemed like something that would last long. They didn't even fight much and things had always been happy and amicable. Until now, when she said he's boring her, and here he was, always trying to do things her way because that was exactly what he didn't want._

_So what the fuck did he do wrong?_

_"_ _You did nothing wrong, Sam."_

_Did he just say that out loud? Shit._

_"_ _Go away," he mumbles. He doesn't really want Dean to go away. But he doesn't want Dean to see him moping and crying over a girl either. He's never seen Dean cry over a break-up. Dean's probably just going to make fun of him and he's just not in the mood for that right now._

 _"_ _Nope. I'm not leaving until you talk to me."_

_Sam glares at Dean who just stares right back. After about a minute, Sam lets out an exasperated sigh and faces Dean, sitting cross-legged._

_"_ _You really wanna know?"_

_Dean nods._

_"_ _I got dumped. Emily dumped me. You happy?"_

_Dean looks confused. "Why would I be happy?"_

_Sam gives Dean an equally puzzled look. "Don't you think I'm a baby? An idiot for crying or – or being sad over this? I mean, you've never..." Sam trails off, not understanding. He thought Dean would make fun of him._

_Sam watches as Dean's face goes from a look of confusion to realization. He twists around to Sam and shakes his head._

_"_ _Dude, you're not a baby. I mean you are a little bit—"_

 _"_ _Deaaaan."_

_Dean ruffles his hair. "You liked this chick. And it's okay to be broken up about it. You don't have to feel ashamed for that."_

_"_ _Really?" Sam asks, playing with a loose thread on his sweatpants._

 _"_ _Yup. Really. Although this is a one-time pass. Next time I see ya crying over some chick, Sammy, you're not forgetting it."_

 _"_ _Shut up, jerk."_

 _"_ _Bitch," Dean scoffs. "Now tell me, why'd she dump you?"_

_Sam bites his bottom lip. "She said I'm boring her, and that she likes someone else," Sam mutters, his eyes stinging. He hastily wipes at them, not wanting Dean to see. He had always had this innate fear of falling for someone he wouldn't be good enough for. Just like Dean and Dad are too good for him, but he'd selfishly hoped he'd feel better about himself as he grew older. Apparently not._

_Dean sighs. "Well, she's a bitch."_

_"_ _Dean—"_

 _"_ _Okay, fine. Maybe she isn't. I don't know her as well as you do. But what I do know is, she is missing out on a good, giant dork like you and going after some jock instead? That's her problem. You're going to find better people, Sam. You'll find someone far better than this Emily girl. I mean it." Dean lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck and looks directly into his eyes._

_Sam sees the honesty and he feels his lips tug into a smile. "You really think so?"_

_Dean nods. "Of course, dude. Look at you. You look almost as good as I do." He cuffs at Sam's neck._

_"_ _You're ugly."_

 _"_ _Then you're just uglier." Dean sniggers. "Seriously, though. You hearing me?"_

 _"_ _Yeah," Sam says. "Thanks."_

_They sit shoulder to shoulder after that for a few minutes until Dean breaks the silence._

_"_ _I had something like this back when I was in high school," he says._

_Sam looks up at him in curiosity. "What?"_

_"_ _Her name was Janet. She was pretty cool. Dated her for about five months, I think. I really liked her. Well, until I found out she was cheating on me with this guy from the basketball team. I talked to her about it and well, I got dumped."_

 _"_ _I'm sorry," Sam says, shocked. He didn't know Dean had been through something like this too. And, sure, Sam remembers Dean pissed and in bad moods after break-ups but he always reckoned it wasn't a big deal._

 _"_ _Nah, it's in the past," says Dean. "Either way, just letting you know that you're not the only one."_

Now as he thinks of that conversation, Sam smiles wryly to himself. Compared to _her,_ Emily was a fucking saint and he reckons he was a better person to Emily too, because his last relationship was just as much his mistake.

_God._

He shudders.

He sits on the bed, moving his hands over the sheets, looking at the bare walls and thinking of the mixture of posters and paintings that had decorated them. The paintings are back at Omaha now and Sam pretty much grew out of the posters. Dean still has his, though. Dean is different that way. He grew up quicker but he likes to cling to the good days more than Sam does.

He also doesn't forget easy.

"Sam." Dean's voice issues from the doorway and Sam looks there to see his brother adjust his jacket. "Ready to go? And wear your glasses okay?"

Sam nods as Dean exits the room and gets his glasses out to wear them, before putting a jacket on himself. He removes his hair tie and shakes his hair back, running a hand through it to smooth it out. "Come on." He feels the dread-excitement wash through him again, and takes one last look at his room before following his brother to the car.

**~o~**

Sam and Dean hug Ellen and Bobby and Jo tightly when they reach Ellen's place. They haven't been here a while, seeing Ellen and Jo usually come to spend Thanksgiving at Omaha every year while Bobby makes his trip every Easter. Dean's always been determined not to get Sam back here.

It's because of their neighbour, Nick. From what Sam remembers, he knows Nick was a murderer and a kidnapper, and then there's that thing that Sam can't remember and he knows it's associated with Nick too. Nick had lived at 1626, the house across theirs, and this was why Sam couldn't stop a shiver from rolling down his spine earlier today when they'd pulled up to their place. He felt an onslaught of dread and discomfort just at the memory of that address. However, later, Sam did peek a glance at the house and it seems unoccupied now.

It looks like no one bought it in a decade. The yard is overgrown, the house quiet, and Sam's emotions must have been conveyed to his face, as Dean hadn't let Sam look at it too long before pulling him into the car.

"What happened to Nick?" Sam had asked Dean today, finally breaching that subject after ten years. It's been a pact between them at Omaha. Sam isn't supposed to remember, so they don't talk about it. However, seeing the house again had brought Sam's curiosity back, much to Dean's annoyance. "How do they know Nick was a murderer if no one ever found the bodies?"

"He left, and they found a body."

"Whose—?"

Dean had swallowed. "You know who it was."

"You never told me there was a body."

"So I'm telling you now. There was one. And we don't need to discuss this."

"Who—?" And Sam had stopped short, the answer coming to him with a bang and crash. " _Andy_? Was that… Andy?"

His best friend had died a decade ago too, something else Sam can’t remember because it was during that particular… well, _time_ , but he couldn’t believe his ears. “Dean, did Nick kill Andy?” He had been told that Andy was in an accident. A skiing accident, to be specific, and Andy did take a lot of skiing trips with his parents back in their childhood so this was not so farfetched, although very sad.

Dean had nodded. "Yeah."

"H-how? Why didn't you tell me that's how he died?" Sam can remember being at Andy's funeral, lost, as Andy's parents hugged him tight. It's a vague, vague thing, tucked somewhere in his head.

"It was ten years ago, Sam," says Dean, "and I told you that we don't talk about this. Can we drop it now?"

And Sam had dropped it. He knows that it's probably not a good idea to try and remember anyway, even though he wishes he could. His heart pains for Andy, though. Another loss that he can't get himself to forget, even if he doesn't remember it happening, just like dad's case.

At that time, things were so different. They have all come up in life. Moved ahead. Ellen used to be Sergeant, and she is the Captain at the police department now. Bobby is Sergeant. And…

Sam searches around for another familiar figure.

 _Cas_.

Sure, his back is turned to Sam, but Sam can recognize that trenchcoat anywhere. Cas never leaves it behind.

The man is a detective, and Sam hasn't spoken to him in ten years. Before they left, Dean and Cas had a falling out (Cas had been a cop then). Sam doesn't know why but they stopped talking, and he'd wanted to stay in touch with Cas, but had nothing to contact him with. Now, standing near the dining table… Cas adjusts the trench coat as he nurses a beer. He's alone, and Sam hesitates, before starting to make his way to his old friend.

Just as Sam's approaching him, Cas picks up his phone and Sam stops, backing away a little. Cas doesn't turn around, and has no clue that Sam's right behind him. He's deep in conversation, and Sam can catch some of it as he looks for Dean.

"Yes," Cas is saying, "all young boys. All teenagers of high school age. Except for one, that is. Yes. Carl."

Sam spots Dean and is about to wave him over, when Cas sighs. "No, Melvin, it's in my drawer. Disappearances. I have a big label on the binder."

Sam freezes.

 _"_ _In what looks like a case of kidnapping, two boys have been reported missing in Lawrence, Kansas. Both teenagers, they were found missing from school and home two days ago. The search is ongoing but police is unsuccessful in tracing anything of their whereabouts so far. Information on their clothing and looks will be displayed briefly…"_

 _"_ _Man, this news anchor is hot."_

 _"_ _Dean, keep quiet, this is serious. Sam, you know these boys?"_

 _"_ _I - I know one of them."_

"There was a similar case ten years ago," Cas mutters, and Sam backs away, his forehead suddenly damp with sweat and heart pounding against his chest. The case. Cas is discussing the one from…

_Why?_

He keeps moving, hoping Cas doesn't turn now. He doesn't want Cas to see him like this. No way. He needs a drink. And… _oh god_.

He's still backing off, when someone suddenly bumps into him from the back. "Ouch!"

_Shit. Crap._

"S-Sorry!" Sam apologises as he whirls about, only to come face-to-face with a woman. She smiles at him, teeth perfectly white and bordered by painted lips.

"That's all right, I'm fine," she says, adjusting herself. "Although," she frowns as she looks at him, "I haven't seen you around Ellen's before. Are you new?" Her light brown eyes sparkle with her smile and Sam blinks.

"Uh. I used to live here. We moved to Omaha."

"You and?" She flips her hair back and bites her lip, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, that's none of my business."

"It's all right. Me and my brother." Sam jabs a thumb towards Dean's corner.

She looks at him a long moment, and holds her hand out. "Sarah Blake."

"Sam Winchester," he replies, shaking hands with her. "So how long have you been here?"

"A few weeks," she says. She then turns towards the painting before her, which hangs above the mantelpiece. "This is a good replica, don't you think?"

Sam nods. He'd gifted it to Ellen long ago. "Sunflowers, by Van Gogh." He folds his arms over his chest. "Most people wouldn't know, though."

"The brush strokes are different around here." She points out to the turquoise backdrop. "There's something off about the texture."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "So you don't think a painter should have his own style?"

"Or _hers_ ," she mutters, leaning further to scrutinize it. "Although I never said this wasn't good."

"Oh, it was a he," Sam tells her.

She looks at the painting another moment and then turns to him. "You know this guy?"

"Yup," Sam says, smiling.

She is befuddled a whole minute, and then her eyes widen. "That's _you_?"

Sam chuckles. "You're right."

"I—" she shakes her head as her hands fly into her hair, pushing it back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think it was you! This is brilliant!"

Sam's cheeks colour as he bows his head a little. "You're just saying that because now you know it's me."

"No, really."

"It's all right," Sam waves his hand casually. He wasn't fishing for compliments about the painting anyway.

"You're good!" she insists. "Honestly, okay?"

They gawk at each other a whole moment and then simultaneously burst into laughter. Sarah takes a step back, hand on top of the mantelpiece, head thrown back as she laughs and Sam watches her; her streaming eyes and her hair and her blue dress rippling around her thighs as she shakes, and he turns away before he can think of it anymore.

_I love you, Sam._

Sam swallows and shakes _her_ memories away as he hears Dean calling out to him. Sarah stops laughing a little, her voice high and clear, and Sam smiles apologetically. "My brother's looking for me. I'll catch you later, okay?"

"All right," she agrees. She pauses, and then rummages her bag for something. "I have to leave now," she says, producing a pen and a piece of paper. "Catch up with me anyway?" She winks at him briefly, handing him the paper, and leaves, the scent of apples trailing behind her.

Sam watches her leave, and numbly opens the paper to see her phone number on it. He crumples it and stuffs it into his pocket before going to find Dean.

He can't do this right now. She seems like a good girl, but Sam can't. He hopes she won't think he's a dick for it.

He waves at Dean to catch his attention and then walks over to him, rolling his eyes at the look Dean throws at him.

"Who was she? She's cute," Dean says, grinning and looking behind Sam as if trying to spot her.

"Sarah," Sam answers. "And yeah, she's cute. Gave me her number too. What's your point?"

Dean looks at him in disbelief. "Dude, you kidding me? What were you two talking about?"

"The painting I'd made for Ellen, back there," he says.

"See? She's totally your type. Geeking out over art and shit. Call her. Hell, _I've_ never got a chick's number this early into my conversation with here and here you are. You lucky bastard."

Sam sighs. "Dean—"

"Sam, come on. She looks good, she was totally checking you out, and you actually had intelligent conversation with another human for a while there so it seems like you two would get along well. So if you asked her out, what's the problem?" Dean folds his hands over his chest.

"I'm…not ready," Sam mumbles, not meeting eyes with Dean. "You know what happened with… yeah."

Not receiving a reply from Dean forces Sam to look up, though, and he sees the softness and care in Dean's eyes.

"You don't have to think about the past, Sammy. You deserve better and you know that. Either way, you don't have to say anything to her if you don't wanna. I'm just _suggesting_ that you get to know her. Maybe ask her out for like a coffee or dinner date. You could use some nice company while we're here, but hey, it's all up to you, okay?" Dean's voice is soft throughout.

Sam purses his lips, considering Dean's advice and then nods. "Okay." Just then he watches Cas approach them, having finished his phone call, and straightens up with a grin. "Hey, Cas."

Sam holds out his hand and Cas takes it, shaking it briefly, and Dean doesn't spare a glance at his former friend before clearing his throat. "I am in the other room, talking to Jo. Okay, Sammy?"

"Okay," says Sam, glancing at Cas, who smiles.

"Hello, Dean."

As Dean ignores that and walks away, Sam just feels the forlorn sadness twinge at him again.

**~o~**

Dinner is amazing. This one is only for Ellen's closest, and they're all gathered at the small table, Sam, Dean, Cas, Jo, Ellen and Bobby, a smaller, but better company which Sam enjoys. Dean and Cas haven't spoken again; Cas didn't even try to approach Dean again, and Sam wishes the awkwardness between them would just vanish for once because this is just one of the best evenings he's had in a long time and now that they're back here a while, he wants all the broken things to be fixed again. Like before.

"Ya idjits keeping your noses clean?" Bobby asks them as he polishes his steak off. "No issues up at Nebraska, right?"

"You tell us," Dean says, winking at him. "What's with the office romance, you two got going there, huh?"

Bobby looks unperturbed, while Ellen raises an eyebrow. Jo coughs into her wine. Cas seems confused, and Sam isn't surprised at that.

"You want me to whack yer bottoms?" Bobby threatens, and Dean just chuckles harder. It's a testament to how comfortable they are around him.

"You know the truth, Bobby. I ain't saying anything," Dean raises his hands in surrender, feigning innocence.

"You better not. It's none of yer business ya idjit," Bobby warns, yet Sam can see the fondness in his eyes.

"So, Bobby, how's work?" Sam asks, changing the topic as he pops a spoonful of salad into his mouth.

"Same old, same old. Have a couple cases in the works right now but we'll figure 'em out soon enough."

Sam nods, deciding not to mention what he overheard Cas saying on the phone. It wouldn't exactly be great to tell everyone he accidentally eavesdropped on a conversation like that. Plus, talking about it would make it real, and…

 _"_ _There was a similar case ten years ago."_

He swallows at the lump in his throat as few loose strands of hair slide down the sides of his face. Trying to divert his attention from the clusterfuck in his mind, Sam sets his fork aside and fishes out a hair tie out of his pocket. He'd rather not be eating his own hair. He gathers up the front and ties it onto a messy half bun just for the time being.

He then realizes how quiet the table has gotten owing to the fact that they were all staring at him.

Sam turns red. "What?"

Dean gives him an incredulous look. "Dude, five minutes with some clippers."

"Shut up, jerk. It's my hair. You don't get to tell me what to do with it."

"I think it looks great on you, sweetie," Ellen says, going ahead to glare warningly at Dean.

Sam blushes, mumbling a "thank you".

Dean starts chuckling at Sam's reaction and kicks him under the table, and Sam finally grins along as he eats peacefully. They crack jokes, swap stories and in Dean's case, rant about college.

"It's fucking annoying, ok?" Dean says as he gulps down the food in his mouth. "I mean, who the fuck needed to make the body so complicated?" Dean rants, stabbing his fork into his piece of steak.

"Jeez, Dean, you don't need to crush the poor meat," Sam teases.

Dean threateningly waves his fork at Sam but doesn't say anything. Instead he turns back to Bobby and Ellen. "Like, to be honest, the only things that remotely help me remember any kind of shit in anatomy is flashcards. Which again, are annoying because _there are so many._ "

"Flashcards which I help make, you dumbass."

"Whatever. Point being, while I like what I'm doing, anatomy is fucking shit and can go dig itself a grave for all I care," Dean grumbles, munching rather forcefully on his bite of steak.

They continue eating. Sam almost chokes on his drink when Dean tries to flirt playfully with Jo only to be bluntly rejected. He's coughing, with Dean glaring at him when Ellen looks to him.

"How's the TA job going, Sam?"

Sam clears his throat and wipes at his watery eyes. "It's great. Grading papers isn't, though."

"Yeah, and you pass them all," Dean chips in. "So of course it's great 'cause they all probably love you."

"They deserve to pass!"

"No they don't." Dean looks around at the rest of the occupants. "He's way too nice to the kids."

"Am not!" Sam retorts, indignant.

"Dude, you still haven't told that girl, Diane, that she can't fucking paint. And she's always trying to go on dates with you. Or have you been stupid enough to not notice?"

"So you want me to break that girl's heart by telling her she's shit at art?" Sam challenges, throwing his brother as reproachful a look as he can muster.

"Well, you're rejecting her either way, Sammy. Whether you tell her or not, you're breaking her heart. Like your heart was broken by… who was that you cried about back at high school? Elsie?"

"Emily."

"Oh yeah." Dean snorts. "Man, you were an emo kid."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Eat your rabbit food, bitch."

" _Boys_ ," Bobby says, stern.

Sam mumbles out an apology, internally smiling to themselves, and brief silence envelopes the table. And it remains that way, comfortable and warm, until a voice breaks it.

"You both haven't changed at all."

It's Cas, and Sam looks across at him, watching the wilted smile on his face. And he glances at Dean who still isn't acknowledging their friend.

Sam shrugs. "We all have, man. We just revert to the basics sometimes."

"Revert to the basics," Cas repeats. "Yes, we should all do that from time to time; don't you think?"

Sam shrugs in agreement and kicks Dean under the table, but doesn't get a kick in reply. He tries to shrug apologetically at Cas, but his old friend is already slumping as he gets back to his food. Sam really, really hopes they will be friends again.

They talk for what feels like hours. Even after they're done eating, they sit amongst empty plates for a good thirty minutes, just chatting away, catching up on each other's lives. Cas, though, is quiet through it all except for that brief conversation and Sam catches his eyes trained on Dean throughout, and feels something sink into his stomach. Dean, however, continues to ignore him.

After dinner, Sam can't take it anymore. They're wearing their jackets and Dean is kissing Ellen goodbye when Sam approaches Cas. "Hey."

Cas smiles at him, the familiar, wide, smile Sam has seen after a long, long time, this time with crinkles around his eyes. "Hello, Sam."

"You wanna come home with us?" Sam asks him. "Catch up?"

"I would very much like to, but—" He looks at Dean and Sam can read the uncertainty and sadness on his face. "I don't know."

Sam nudges his shoulder. "He'll sulk but warm up. Come on."

"Revert to the basics?" Cas smiles.

"Yeah, he will. He just needs to realise that things have changed now."

Cas hesitates; then obliges as he follows Sam outside to the Impala. Dean notices him but doesn't say anything throughout the drive. But the fact that he didn't outright yell at Cas or tell him not to join them, gives Sam positive hope.

When they get back home, Sam looks across the street and feels his heartbeat quicken at Nick's place. He sways on his spot and Dean comes to put a hand on Sam's shoulder, just as Cas moves to offer his help too. Dean brushes Cas off, and nods at Sam. "Don't look there, Sammy. He's gone." And Sam takes his advice.

Dean doesn't talk much to Cas as they have beers and watch a movie either, and Sam thinks he's made a mistake. He manages to keep up a conversation; something about old, dead languages and the weird stuff Cas tends to like, and then turns in early, still a little shaken up about Nick as he shows Cas to the guest room, thinking this whole thing has been a trainwreck.

At night when Sam's comfortable under his covers, Dean comes up to his room. "Sam," he says, "You have no clue why Cas and I stopped talking. Leave it be, okay?" He pauses. "And ask that girl you were talking to, to coffee tomorrow."

His voice isn't raised. In fact, it's hardly over a whisper, but Sam senses the fury in it. He shivers a little as he turns. Dean rarely ever uses that tone of voice so Sam knows he's struck a nerve. He decides to make it up to him later. When Dean leaves, he thinks of his brother's suggestion to call Sarah and starts to look for her phone number.

He struggles a little but brings out the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. When he's dialled her number and put the phone to his ear, his heart rate speeds up just at the ringing tone.

"Hello?"

Sam stays silent, wondering if he's doing the right thing.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Sam takes a deep breath. Dean's right. Some company wouldn't hurt. "Hey," he says and buries his face into his palm. His voice has never sounded so high pitched and alien to him before. He clears his throat. "It's me, Sam."

"Oh! Hey! I didn't think you'd call."

"Yeah, I didn't know if I would either, to be honest. But, what the heck."

 _What the heck?_ Sam wants to punch himself. Why is he so bad at this?

"So…" Sarah prompts. "Anything in particular you wanna talk about?"

Sam feels blood rush into his cheeks. He licks his lips and gulps. He's acting like a teenager asking his crush out. He steels himself for rejection as he says, "I was…just wondering. I mean, you seem like…I don't know. I just…wow, I'm sorry, I suck at this."

"No big deal," Sarah, says, chuckling. Her laugh makes Sam's heart flutter. He can just imagine how she looks, brushing her hair back, smiling, eyes sparkling. "Tell me."

"Okay, here goes. I was just wondering if you'd like to have coffee sometime. Or lunch. Or dinner. Whichever you prefer."

Sam's heart is beating a mile a minute as he waits for her reply.

"Sure. How about The Fitzgerald? Tomorrow morning? I'll text you the timing soon. That okay?"

"Sounds perfect," Sam says, relieved.

"Okay then. See you soon. 'Night, Sam."

"'Night," Sam says as she hangs up.

Sam stares in wonder at his phone. He isn't surprised to find his hands shaking. For all he knows, this could either really good or really bad. But maybe Dean was right. He should give this a chance. What could be worse than… than _her_?

With the telephone conversation in his mind, Sam falls asleep dreaming of feathers and Sarah and screaming.


	2. Four Days to Christmas

Sam feels calmer in the morning even as he stands at his window, watching Nick's house. Last night, it had looked different somehow, and Sam couldn't put a finger on it but his heart had raced like it was familiar with some sort of horror associated with the house. Of course, there is the fact that a cold-blooded murderer lived there but Sam also knows that whatever happened there ten years ago is connected with him, including Andy's death, now that he knows Dean was hiding it from him until last night.

He didn't tell Dean about what he'd overheard from Cas. They're here to have a good time; not be paranoid again.

Sam can't actually remember anything bad associated with 1626, though, thanks to his amnesia. Dean's said not to scratch, and tempting as it is, Sam won't. He hates Dean for bossing him about but then he also kinda knows that Dean's usually right about this shit.

Sam remembers a very different side of Nick. He'd been middle-aged; almost as old as their dad, and he was always calling Sam home to teach him and Nick's own son, Max, painting. Max was Sam's age and in his class and one of his closest friends apart from Andy. Nick would sit them both in his backyard and bring out the easels and they'd paint for hours, each engrossed in his own work. Nick would order them pizza when they were done for the day and take a look at their work, telling Sam what was a better technique and what was easier. He'd always have a smile on his face and an appreciation in his talk. He'd be ready to teach, anytime, anywhere. He had been a Fine Arts professor before he retired to run a bookstore in Lawrence.

He had a unique style of painting too. Something he'd use to texture his art. A secret Sam never found about until the very end. _Feathers_.

Sam's favourite memory of painting with Max and Nick is the day he'd painted his mom as a Christmas present for John. It had been painful but exhilarating, capturing her beautiful face on canvas, mixing tones and shades and trying to appropriate them to who she really used to be. Sam had always thought of her as someone who was larger than life and ethereal, and he tried to make her glow as much as she glowed in his mind. In the end, however, she didn't look half as beautiful as she actually was.

Sam had gifted it to John on Christmas anyway, a smile on his face, and his father had hugged him tight for it whilst blinking back tears. The memory is etched into Sam's brain to last there forever: the sparkle in John's eyes, and the colour of happiness on Dean's cheeks, and then his brother had hugged him too, albeit awkwardly.

"Getting taller than me, dumbass," Dean had muttered, ruffling Sam's hair when they pulled apart.

The painting is still there, framed and displayed in their living room at Omaha. Sam's made another for Dean this year, of John this time (apart from the other thing he plans on giving Dean), but this was before they decided to come back to Lawrence for the holidays.

Ten years ago they'd hauled ass from Lawrence by New Year's, and had counted down to midnight buried in blankets in separate rooms in a small apartment lent to them by one of Bobby's friends. Sam remembers waking up from nightmares, breathing heavily into damp pillows while his face was contorted with tears. He remembers Dean at his doorway, a dark shadow, dejected and sad. And it brings up such helplessness in him, he hates it.

Now he doesn't know what kind of mood Dean will even be in on Christmas day, so he's left John's painting behind because they don't need more pain.

Swallowing down the memories, Sam exits his room and briefly stops by outside Dean's, peeking through the crack in his doorway to see that his brother is fast asleep. He takes the stairs, scratching his hair when he sees the door to the guest bedroom shut, remembering that Cas is here too. He wonders when Dean and Cas will reconcile, and then decides to take it out of his mind because now that they're here, he knows they will. That kind of friendship doesn't just disappear forever. So he digs in the shelves for some of the supplies Ellen's kept in here, and notices the pancake mix.

He's flipping the second one, preparing the batter for another, when he hears Dean walk into the room, the sound of his staggering, slipper-clad feet unmistakeable.

"'Morning, sunshine," Dean grumbles, voice deep in his throat.

Sam nods at the coffee maker. "Drink your poison."

"Gimme a minute," Dean says, and Sam turns briefly, to watch him lean back on his chair. "You know," he says again, "Ellen and Bobby have done a pretty good job with this place, don't you think?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. And—" he swallows, thinking of what he's about to say, "I don't know, man… I think we should sell it, or at least rent it to someone. We could use the money."

Dean doesn't take it as badly as Sam thinks he would. "I guess. We'll put it on the listings once we're back in Omaha."

"So our last Christmas here?" Sam asks his brother lightly.

"Last Christmas here," Dean agrees.

Sam watches the pancake turn golden. "So… don't you think we should celebrate this year, Dean?"

"Celebrate what?" Dean scoffs. "Dad's death?"

"Dean—"

Dean buries his face in his hands as Sam turns. "No," he says, "no Christmas tree, Sam. Please, dude. Don't have this argument with me every year. This one's been hard enough."

Sam thinks of waking up early morning and opening presents with John and Dean. They'd have breakfast and then do their annual marathoning of a game and a couple of movies. Afternoon and evening was dedicated to greeting the neighbourhood and friends, and maybe some snowball fights. Dinner was family time again with turkey, the delicious stuffing an old family recipe from their dad's side, passed on through generations, and some cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and pudding. Dad would have a glass of whiskey by him and chuckle through games of Bluff. They'd laugh into the night, remember Mom with love and happiness and Sam would go to sleep content.

When they were really young, until about Sam was seven, this was the only night in the year he and Dean were allowed to curl up on John's either side on his bed, strong arms holding them against a broad chest as whiskery kisses were pressed onto their heads. Then Dean got too old for it and Sam decided that so was he. He still didn't cease to be warm, though. Not when he had Dad and Dean around.

Except, that era ended long ago, and all Sam ever feels these days, is the unforgiving cold.

His heart sinks. "It's just a tree."

"No." Dean's eyes flash dangerously when he looks at Sam this time. "You don't remember it, Sam, doesn't mean I don't either. It was Christmas Eve, okay, and it was the worst fucking night of my life, and _no_."

"You never told me the whole story of what happened. How am I supposed to know?"

"Dad got hit by a car. He went out, got hit by a fucking car, and he never came back. I've told you a million times. Shut up and make your pancakes."

"Dean…"

"Dammit, Sam! _No Christmas trees, and that's final_ ," Dean hollers, raising his voice, and Sam flinches as he takes a step back. There's a fire in Dean's eyes which he notices at that moment, a fire which he hasn't seen in ten years.

 _I'm taking him away, Ellen. I'm taking him far away from this shit,_ Dean had said, gaze blazing the same way but this time at their life and their destiny. He had bundled a shaking, incoherent Sam in blankets, swaddled him like a baby, and, true to his word, taken Sam _away_. Dean had been full of righteous anger as he drove, yet managing to be nothing but gentle whenever Sam had needed him; through the ride, and then their initial years at Omaha. And Sam never remembered why he felt that way. Why he was so hopeless for such a long time. Dean was patient through it all.

"Now make that damned breakfast," Dean spits, pulling Sam out of his thoughts, "and stop asking me shit questions, Sammy, or so help me—"

Dean's attitude spurs something bitter inside Sam. He certainly doesn't have to behave like that, Sam thinks, but then he swallows down any upsurge of emotions that might ruin Christmas for both him and Dean. Or, what's left of it for them anyway.

He grits his teeth as he turns back to his cooking. "Sometimes," he mumbles, loud enough for Dean to hear, "sometimes, we should learn to move on, because that's what our loved ones would want of us, you know."

Dean is up and out of his seat the next moment. "Fine, then," he says. "You can move on by yourself. I'm going out for breakfast."

Sam listens to his brother's receding footsteps, taking deep breaths to control his anger while wondering if it's his fault that John died, and if that is why Dean won't talk about it whilst always seeming so angry about what happened. He's asked Dean about this before, and Dean's always denied it but Sam isn't so sure that Dean isn't angry at _him_.

It's saying something that Dean, who is the champion of letting things go without affecting him, hasn't recovered from their father's death even after it's been a decade. And of course, you don't forget people you lose and you don't completely heal in their absence, but Sam is pretty sure that the wound isn't supposed to be as raw as it seems to be for Dean.

**~o~**

Sarah's waiting for Sam at The Fitzgerald when he enters, waving at him from a table in the corner. He pushes to get his glasses off and smiles at her as Garth calls out to him from behind the counter. "Sam Winchester!"

Garth used to be classmates with Dean and Cas and Sam feels his grin widen as Garth walks towards him, apron-clad and holding his arms out. They hug, Garth squeezing Sam tight before they part.

"How are you, man?" Garth asks him, and Sam doesn't know if that's sympathy in his eyes, but he chooses to ignore it.

"I'm good," he says. "You?"

"Rocking the family business!" Garth replies brightly, spreading his arms and gesturing around at the whole shop. "You here with someone?"

"Uh, yeah, actually." Sam nods towards Sarah, feeling his cheeks grow warm. Garth turns to look at her and when he's facing Sam again, he winks.

"Date with the new doc in the block. Not bad, dude."

"N-Not a date," Sam tells him, "we're just meeting."

"No issues," Garth tells him, smacking Sam on the arm. "I'll get you our best coffee and pie, yeah? Take some for Dean too. Speaking of—" he pauses as Sam nods, "Where's that brother of yours? Haven't seen him in a while."

"Dean's at home," Sam tells him, remembering his pissed-off brother sulking about his chores. "I'll tell him to call you."

"Sure thing, man, have a good time." Garth winks and gives Sam a last squeeze before Sam heads towards Sarah, appropriately embarrassed.

She's laughing when he takes a seat next to her, hand covering her mouth. Sam notices a wedding band and his heart sinks. He leans back on his chair, thinking if this was a bad idea, when Sarah lifts an eyebrow. "You look like someone kicked your pup."

Sam smiles. "Your husband not here with you?"

Her attention diverts to her hand and she blinks. "Oh. That."

"Yeah." Sam lets out a breath. "Listen, Sarah, I…"

"It's in the past," she whispers, putting her hand on her lap. She bites her lip. "He died seven months ago. I just…"

"Oh God. Shit, I'm so—"

"No, it's okay," she tells him. "How would you know, right?"

There's silence as Garth comes over to their table with the coffees and pies. He smiles again at Sam, brightly, before leaving and Sam draws his mug closer, playing with the handle and not knowing what to say.

After a moment of awkwardly trying to sip at his drinks, Sam clears his throat, letting out a small chuckle. "I should just remove myself from here…"

"No," Sarah tells him quietly. "I—I guess," she rubs her forehead, "I'm kinda ready for this, you know. The whole moving on thing. But it's just hard sometimes. And I keep the wedding band because I can't just throw away his memories like that. So… if that's putting you off…"

"Yeah, I understand. And it's okay."

"I mean, first that, and then my brother…"

Sam feels his eyes widen. "Your brother too?"

"N-No, Carl's alive," she tells him, "or, at least I hope so." She sighs. "I think I should reintroduce myself." Holding out her hand, Sarah smiles. "Dr Sarah Blake. I'm a resident at CU. I'm in Lawrence because my brother lives here and he's been missing for two weeks now." She swallows. "That's how I know Captain Harvelle. She's put Sergeant Singer in charge of Carl's case and I… I'm here to help look for him."

"I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, taking her hand. He shakes it, feeling the soft skin on her palms and just realises how sad her eyes are. It makes him feel worse about himself, redness creeping up his face again.

" _So they can't find Nick's family?"_

Sam draws his hand away, feeling a chill run down his spine as he blinks at Sarah. "What?"

She shakes her head, equally nonplussed. "What?"

 _"_ _They've been missing only a couple of days, right? What if it's just that Nick can't find them?"_

Sam feels his heart race. The room does a slow spin. "I—washroom." He doesn't provide her with any more explanations as he stands up abruptly and walks towards the toilet in the back, steeling himself not to look at the sheer confusion that is sure to be on Sarah's face.

What the hell is going on?

 _"_ _Hey, Sam."_

_Sam is sitting at The Fitzgerald along with Dad and Dean as they wait for their coffees and donuts, and he had been too engrossed in his copy of Harry Potter to even notice Rachel approaching him. When she greets him, though, he puts the book down and takes her hand, shaking it as he smiles back at her. "Hey, Rachel."_

_"_ _You coming to Alisha's place next week?"_

 _"_ _Alisha's?"_

 _"_ _New Year's party."_

_Sam steals a look at John, who doesn't look like he cares. He shrugs. "Sure?"_

_"_ _Great!" says Rachel brightly. "Brandon's getting his mom's car. You can ride with him and Cindy and me."_

 _"_ _Okay," says Sam, wondering when she'd started to get so interested in him, and he watches as she walks away. Across him, Dean buries his mouth into his hand, bursting into barely controlled sniggers. Sam kicks his brother from under the table as he picks his novel back up._

 _"_ _Fuck!" Dean hisses. He moves forward to backhand Sam, but Sam ducks in his seat, and Dean gets Dad instead._

 _"_ _Dean," John warns him as Sam comes up again, grinning at Dean this time._

 _"_ _Sam's being an asshole," Dean grumbles._

 _"_ _Dean fucking started it," Sam retorts, glaring at his brother._

_John gets back to his reading. "You two are too old for this crap," he says, "and God knows, so am I." He pulls the newspaper down a bit, just to squint at both of them for a moment. "Although, if you swear again, boys, you're both stuck on kitchen and laundry duty for a whole month, and I mean it."_

_"_ _Sorry, Dad," Sam mumbles, returning to his novel._

 _"_ _Sorry, Dad," Dean echoes him and returns to staring about aimlessly around the coffee shop._

 _"_ _Dad," Dean begins, just as Sam's reading about the Heir of Slytherin. "So they can't find Nick's family?"_

_Sam hears his father put down the newspaper. "Seems like it, son."_

_"_ _They've been missing only a couple of days, right? What if it's just that_ Nick _can't find them? I mean, it's not even like those other kids who they're trying to track. Mrs Miller doesn't fit that bill."_

 _"_ _I think he'd have heard something from them if they were nearby," replies John. "They seem to be legitimately missing. And it doesn't have to be same as the other disappearances." He pauses. "You taking care of Sam?"_

_Sam starts to protest as he shuts the novel. "Dad, I don't need Dean to—"_

_"_ _Yes, sir," Dean interrupts him, and Sam glares his brother. Why the fuck do they always have to baby him?_

 _"_ _Good," says John. He turns to Sam. "Sammy, it's for your own good. Just listen to us."_

 _"_ _Okaaaaay."_

 _"_ _Nothing that Ellen can't look into and solve anyway," Dean perks up. "I'm sure they'll all be back. The kids and Mrs Miller. And then we should call Ellen and Jo over to party and—"_

 _"_ _Dean, you stop fooling around with Jo. I won't have you chasing about girls and treating them like crap, you hear me?"_

 _"_ _Who says I treat them like crap?" Dean sounds indignant, but John picks his paper back up._

 _"_ _If you don't; good. I'm just saying, I'll not have any of that."_

Sam is standing at the sink, listening to the running water as he splashes his face. He remembers coming here a lot with Dean and Dad but when was… _that_ …? When did Rachel ask him to the party? When did Dean and John even have that conversation?

 _"_ _Have you told Sam the secret?"_

_Michael, Nick's brother, walks up to them from the house. He's here for the holidays, and to help Nick while they find Max and Mrs Miller. Sometimes Sam thinks of how they look nothing alike; like him and Dean._

_"_ _Tell him," Michael prods Nick, smiling mildly._

_Nick glances at his brother and nods. "You – you know those textures I make, right, in my portraits?"_

_"_ _Yeah?"_

_He smiles nervously. "I'm going tell you how to paint with feathers today, Sam."_

_Nick's looking haggard, eyes sunken, hair askew, and he's been like this ever since Max and Mrs Miller disappeared. He still teaches Sam how to paint, welcomes Sam's company in his lawn every evening as they paint people and sunsets without talking much. And he'll only speak about technique and brush strokes, and Sam wonders if Nick doesn't miss his wife and son._

_"_ _I626, Eldridge Street," Nick had muttered into the phone when he'd ordered him and Sam their routine pepperoni pizza, and Sam thinks of how odd it is here without Max._

Sam gasps in a breath, trying to control the rapid, uncontrollable tremors wracking through his body as he washes his face again.

 _The dark room. A portrait of Mrs Miller, masterfully painted. But there is something wrong. She looks haunted. Like she's in pain. Like she's afraid. Like she's_ dying _. The strokes in it are so clean, so evidently recognisable…_

_Feathers..._

Sam pushes away from the sink and leans against the wall, drawing in slow breaths. He palms the cool tile and thinks of Sarah, waiting there for him, and of his Christmas present to Dean, and of how Dean's going to be so happy when he sees it.

His breaths slow a little, allowing him to catch up with them. Sam blinks to clear his vision and inhales deeply a couple more times. His heart finally starts behaving.

He feels ridiculous once he stops shaking, and reaches for the paper towels to wipe his face. Tom Riddle had been the Heir of Slytherin, he thinks. That's what he had read that day. Riddle's name was an anagram for _I am Lord Voldemort_. A few weeks after they'd moved to Omaha, Sam had picked up his copy of _Chamber of Secrets_ again, telling Dean that he'd never finished it, and he remembers the haunted look on Dean's face.

And for real. _When_ did Rachel ask him to any parties? He'd barely even talked to her throughout his school years, and then he'd taken another girl, Cara, to the prom back at Omaha. Sam can't ever remember being pally with Rachel. But then again that's probably because all this happened right before the shitstorm that put Sam out of commission that year.

Right. _Dissociative amnesia._ Kinda sucks.

When Sam gets back to Sarah, her brows are furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" she asks him when he sits down.

"Yeah," he tells her. "J-Just… bathroom took a while…" and there he is, blushing again, because the implication of what he just said is so… _well_ , not something he'd have wanted to talk about in a first date anyway.

"No issues, Sam," she says, "though, now that you're here I was thinking; let's not talk about the disappearances, shall we? It just gets me sad for Carl."

"Oh," he says, "I'm so sorry, I—"

"No, they'll find Carl," she tells him, and the hope in her voice is heartbreaking. "I know they will." She shrugs before changing the topic. "We stopped at my introduction. What's yours?"

"Uh," he looks down, picking at his pie, "Sam Winchester. You know that. I stay at Omaha with my brother, Dean." He coughs. "Sorry, haven't done this in a while."

"Well, me neither, but how come?"

"It's just…" The thought of _her_ makes his heart leap. If it were _her_ , they'd be wedged into a bathroom stall by now, fucking each other's brains out.

God, that was…

"Never mind," he says, pushing the image out of his head. "Long story for another time."

Sarah is nonchalant about that. "Mmm hmm, and what do you do? Besides gifting paintings to surrogate moms and arguing about said paintings with strange women, of course." She laughs, and Sam chuckles himself, scratching at the back of his neck.

"I work for an attorney," he tells Sarah, "and when I get time off I do some work as a TA at Creighton University."

"For law?"

"No, Fine Arts—painting," Sam replies.

Sarah's eyebrows are so high up, they risk disappearing into her hair. "So…you actually did a course…?"

"BA," Sam nods at her. "I promise I'm not that good. Ellen is just kind enough to keep the gift. It's just – it's just _okay_."

"It's brilliant," she replies.

"Hey, you didn't think so at first!"

"I totally did—" she giggles, "I _told_ you. I was just talking about the background on it and the style of painting. And it's amazing, okay? I mean, Carl and I can paint, and we've seen our fair share of masterpieces, but…"

"You paint too?" Sam asks her, chest swelling a little.

"My dad owns a gallery, so we kinda got into it early," she says. "But… yeah. Carl's studying Fine Arts at KU. I decided to take another path. Like you." She frowns, lips pursing. "But how does a TA for Fine Arts have a law degree too?"

"Creighton had a programme, actually," says Sam. "It was a BA followed by a JD, and I thought, hey, best of both worlds."

"No kidding!"

"Nope."

"That _is_ the best of both worlds, then." Sarah laughs, taking a sip of her coffee. "You probably procured _those_ because of all that too." She nods at Sam's glasses, hanging off the neck of his shirt.

Sam stares down at them. "These are all thanks to Dean. The last time I had to change frames he got me this one because, apparently, I'm a _hippie_."

Sarah smiles into her coffee. "Dean's your brother."

"Yup."

"And what does Dean do?"

"He's just begun college this year. In Lincoln." Sam cuts off a piece of his pie and forks it into his mouth. "His boss and I persuaded him into it."

"Why didn't he do college before?"

"He wasn't interested. Worked at Dad's garage. But then we moved to Omaha and it was just me and Dean there, so he got a part-time job at an orthopaedic clinic while I studied. They had physical therapists there and Dean saw what they did—and liked it. I didn't think he'd ever want to do something like that, but he surprised me."

"So what's he majoring in?"

"Biology. I hear him bitching about Anatomy and Physiology at least twice a day." Sam chuckles at the thought of Dean's sulking whenever he opens his atlas and notes to study.

"I'm with him on that," Sarah replies, finishing her coffee and grimacing. "Anatomy gave me nightmares." She pushes her cup away. "Tell you what. I'll bring my notes along when I meet you for ice skating."

Sam almost chokes into his coffee. "Ice skating?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow at seven? Then we can have dinner. You're in, right?"

"Are you asking me out?"

Sarah winks. "Has a girl never asked you out, _Mr Winchester_?"

"N-No, they have… I mean…" Sam had thought she wasn't very interested in him, and he'd been prepared for subtle rejection. Apparently, he couldn't have been more wrong about what she wanted. Plus, plus… _no_. Sam refuses to think about _her_.

"So am I seeing you tomorrow?" Sarah asks him, interrupting his thoughts.

"S-Sure!" Not like those times… _no_.

"And are you going to stop being so shocked about this?"

"I don't know," he tells her, managing to calm himself, and they burst into laughter as Sam signals for more coffee.

They talk and talk on for the next few hours and it's only when Sam looks at Garth's enthusiastic face that he remembers he'd told Dean he'd be home for lunch. But he leans back in his chair for a few more minutes and speaks some more with Sarah because he really hasn't had such a good time in a long, long while.

Not since Jess.

Unlike Jess, Sarah won't have to bear Sam's baggage or see what a mess he is, though. He promises himself that.

**~o~**

Dean is grinning when Sam gets back home. It's the same shit-eating grin Dean blasts at him whenever he's about to annoy the fuck out of Sam, and Sam promptly flips him off before heading to his room, his brother following him upstairs.

"Come on, I didn't even say anything!" Dean whines, watching as Sam throws his scarf onto his bed.

"You intended to," Sam replies. He gathers half his hair into a ponytail so they won't fall into his eyes, fastening his hair-tie and turning around to watch Dean scrutinising him. " _What_?"

"Did you go to meet her dressed in your favourite style of Professor McNerdy?"

"No."

"Sammy…" Dean shakes his head, taking a step further. "You gotta cut your hair, dude."

"And you gotta fuck off." Sam starts to walk out, wondering if he even has place for lunch with all the coffees he's had with Sarah.

"Sam, you wear scarves. And sweaters. And your hair—"

"Dean."

"You're practically a hippie!"

"Says the big brother who bought those glasses for me in the first place, and doesn't let me take them off."

"Doc said you need them at all times. And hey. Those are the only things about you right now that make you remotely cool." He frowns. "And I don't see you wearing them, Sam."

Sam reaches for them and puts them on, sighing. "Happy?"

Dean gives him a thumbs-up.

Sam snorts. "They suck."

"Did Sarah notice them?"

"Uh—"

"Bingo."

"Fuck off."

"You even hungry?" Dean asks him, as Sam gets the knives and forks out. "Or are you full of coffee?"

"How do you—?"

"Garth called Cas. Cas called me."

Sam smirks at his brother. "So you and Cas talking again, then?"

"Called him after you left. Went to his place for a while. Thought I'd at least try talking to the guy," says Dean, shrugging. "And, uh… he's coming over for dinner."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"

Dean colours a little. "Shut up, bitch, you're gonna be here too. He's just my fucking friend and shit happened and…" he frowns. "Don't make it weird."

Sam tilts his head. "Fine."

"Sam."

"I said, _fine_."

"No, don't say it like that."

"Like _what_?"

A hand comes to smack the back of Sam's head. " _Ow_ , jerk!"

"I told you to cut it off, bitch!" Dean tells him indignantly.

Sam glares at him. "Fine."

" _Fine_."

"I hope you forget everything you studied about the femur this morning."

Dean's jaw drops. "How _dare_ you! You bitchy son of a—I _slaved_ over that shit and _I won't forget_."

"Fine then, I'm not making any more flashcards," Sam tells him. "You're exploiting me now. Don't even have any respect—"

Dean's foot comes in contact with Sam's calf, causing him to stumble forward. "There's your respect. Set the table, asshole."

By the time Sam turns around, Dean's retreated into the kitchen. Sam sniggers at his brother's back. Dean will pay for this, and Sam will make sure of that. Oh, he will have his sweet, sweet payback.

**~o~**

Dean cooks again for dinner, ignoring Sam's ribbing as he makes the salad.

"You gonna take Cas out for a movie next?" Sam asks him. "Hold hands and take a walk in the park?"

"'M gonna kick _your_ ass _next_ ," Dean mutters over the sizzle of frying chicken, and Sam just laughs harder.

"Is he staying over tonight too, Dean? And is he sharing your room and your bed?"

"Sam."

"I'll crash at Ellen's if you want me to. Or even Bobby's—"

"Cas is going back home, and if you don't want me to spit in your food, you can shut up."

"Ew," Sam chuckles. "I don't want to share that privilege with Cas. Of tasting your spit."

"Sammy, that's enough."

Dean's tone is calm; not irritated like it was, and Sam stops chortling because he knows that he has reached the limit, and Dean talking like this means that it's best Sam just shuts up.

"Cas used to be my best friend," Dean tells him, turning over the chicken with his tongs. "But I stopped talking to him for a reason. And he's tried to mend it for a long time and I just thought I'd stop being a jerk. Doesn't change what happened. Don't cross the line here, okay?"

Sam nods, and clears his throat. "Sorry."

There is silence, except for more sizzle from the pan as Dean drops another piece of chicken and starts to dab sauce over it. Sam feels embarrassment creep up his neck as he opens up the lettuce he'd picked up. He's always known when to stop with Dean, and when it comes to their last few weeks at Lawrence and the reason they moved, Sam doesn't usually make jokes with his brother. Because he knows that the fact that Dean can remember while Sam can't only means Dean has to carry that burden alone. And Dean's never blamed Sam for any of this stuff, even though Sam, somewhere, wishes he'd been strong enough to remember, instead of having to go to a therapist.

Sam is fidgeting with the lettuce, considering a continuation of his apology, when Dean breaks the silence by speaking up.

"Actually, no." Sam looks up just as Dean turns around, leaning against the counter. " _I'm_ sorry, Sammy. For yelling this morning. I know you love Christmas, but dude, Dad…"

"No, I get it, Dean," Sam tells him. "You don't have to explain."

"I know." Dean smiles. "You're a smart-ass anyway."

"Says the first person ever in the family who's gonna earn a doctorate."

"If I don't flunk out."

Sam moves ahead and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Have some faith in my brother, man. I got to have gotten those genes from somewhere, right?"

Dean shakes his head and gets back to his cooking. "And I'll be damned if that's the shit you take after me for." He scoffs. "Fucking nerd."

Sam watches his brother a long, long time before he can get back to shredding more lettuce for his salad. So much has changed over the years; between the last time they'd been in this house and now, but he and Dean will always be the same to one another, _mean_ the same to each other, day after day, no matter what.

**~o~**

Sam sighs at the lack of reception on his phone as he lounges in the couch. Dean's sitting on the floor before him, preparing the old TV for the movie marathon they're planning to have.

"Dean," says Sam, "I can't get through to Cas."

"He'll reach us when he has to," Dean replies, carefully arranging their _Star Wars_ DVD collection next to the TV.

"Can't _you_ call him?"

"What, you think my phone will magically just connect to him?"

"Yeah." Sam's barely able to keep a straight face when he says it.

"He must be at the police station," Dean says, not noticing Sam's reply, much to Sam's dismay. "I mean, it's not like he lives in my ass. Dude's busy."

The doorbell rings just then and Sam keeps the laughter inside him when Dean mutters his way to it and opens it to reveal a very tired-looking Cas at their doorstep. Dean shakes his head, standing aside. "Cas, get out of my ass."

"I was never in your ass," Cas mumbles, bored, and Sam makes space so he can slump onto their couch. Like old times, Sam remembers, when Cas would just drop in after school with Dean, or after work, and John would make them all PB&Js.

Cas's dad had abandoned him at the group home in town and some of the families in Eldridge Street had taken up the task of providing for him. No one could completely adopt him because of their limited income and those who could would not take him in because he was a blatantly honest child, often considered rude. Plus he was older, and Sam's noticed that most people who adopt prefer the younger children.

Everything Cas had as a child was borrowed, or because of the kindness of others, and he grew up equally kind. He was always so giving and full of gentleness, even with not having much himself. That is why Sam can't fathom why Dean's been so pissed at him over the last decade. He can never bring himself to think that Cas might have done something _that_ bad. But he supposes there has to be a big reason, an explanation for whatever happened, that made Dean hate him so much.

Cas now lives in a small apartment from his modest police salary, but it's incredible how much he's achieved with what he had. He's also blindly loyal to all the families that helped him. John had joined in with them when Dean had become friends with Cas, too. This was what proved that even though their father was the tough love kind of a person most of the year, he was also incredibly gentle when it was needed of him. Much like Dean.

At present Dean adjusts himself on the floor, leaning against the sofa once Cas has washed his face, and they start with the first movie; the fourth episode, each grinning as the opening notes bring back all the nostalgia. Sam knows that Dean just decided to overlook his and Cas's fight in his decision to forgive Cas for whatever it was, but he wonders if they'll ever talk about it.

He hopes they will. Because, Dean needs someone stronger, someone who _remembers_ and was there to share all his burdens with, and Cas is someone who can do that now.

**~o~**

** **

Later that evening, near bedtime, Sam finds himself at his window again with a mug of coffee in his hand. He knows it might not be the best habit around but he likes taking a few sips of caffeine before he sleeps. It's not black, and it's just so he can taste the light burnt bitterness on his tongue. It's never too much to keep him awake, but it makes him feel good and makes Dean call him a caffeine addict too.

Tendrils of mist rise from the beverage in the mug, fogging up Sam's glasses briefly. He watches the street lights develop little halos, thinking of how long they've not been around this place. However, Eldridge Street is the same. Lawrence is the same. It's like continuing from a movie that was paused years ago.

Before he knows it he's staring at Nick's house again, wondering how come no one occupied it all these years. Is it because of the horrible things that have happened there? Are there people who really believe in ghosts and hauntings? And in violent deaths being bad omens? Or is it that the tragedies in that house just make it unsaleable?

How would the families of the victims feel if someone was to actually live there after all these years?

Pushing these morbid thoughts out of his head, Sam finishes his coffee, wondering if Dean has gone to bed yet. It is getting late, and Ellen's called them over tomorrow, so Sam reckons he should hit the hay too. With that thought, he is about to get off to brush his teeth when he realises with a twinge in his chest, that the light in one of the bedrooms in Nick's house is switched on.

It looks so _normal_ , so innocent, that Sam wonders if he missed it before and looks again—

It's still switched on.

Sam yells out, stumbling away from the window. He clamps his hand over his mouth, hoping Dean didn't hear him, and the mug slips out of his glass, rolling onto the carpet and mercifully not shattering. As Sam backs further away, holding back a scream, an intense trembling starts all over him and suddenly, his breaths are catching in his chest, and—

_oh god, need air need to… to… water_

He rushes to the bathroom. _No. No. Nonono_.

He's dreaming.

Has to be dreaming.

The white flash of the restroom tile hits Sam's eyes as he switches on the light, burning his retinas and and he looks down—

_blood_

Red everywhere, getting in the cracks and gaps between the tile, on the walls and trickling down the sides of the bathtub…

 _"_ _Cas!" Dean is yelling. "Cas, get the fuck here!"_

_Everything is blurry and it hurts and it hurts so, so much. And Sam is dying, feeling the life seep out of him and he doesn't know if the pain exceeds the bliss, or vice-versa. He just knows, he can't do this._

_Cantdothisanymore._

_He made a big mistake. He can't stay and he can't leave. Because, what will Dean do?_

_Dad is dead. Dean is alive and is going to have to live through this whole nightmare._

_The pain eases. Sam wants to talk to Dean, call out to him. But Dean isn't paying attention. His forehead is on Sam's, something wet falling onto Sam's cheeks in little, warm drops and Dean's crying._

_This is Sam's fault._

_"_ _Hey, hey," Dean's hands are on Sam's shoulders, his cheeks. "Stay with me. You're going to be okay."_

_There are ambulance sirens, and Sam feels himself lifted, strong hands holding him, curled around his shoulders and under his knees while his head rests against Dean's neck._

_"_ _Cas!" Dean is calling out again. There are footsteps. Sam can smell blood and whiskey. Another pair of arms share his burden with Dean but he doesn't want Dean to let go… no…_

 _"_ _D-Daadd…"_

 _"_ _I hear ya, pal." There are tears in Dean's voice. "It's gonna be all right. You're gonna be okay. We all are…"_

_We're gonna be okay._

_Gonna be okay, Sammy._

When he is aware of himself again, he is on the floor in his bedroom, shudders running all though and his stomach churning like he's been in a carousel too long. He slowly gets up and slumps onto his bed, drawing the bedcovers over himself and curling up into the tiniest ball possible.

It takes a long time for Sam to stop shaking as he buries himself in his blankets with bathroom light falling on his face. He has no courage to go back there and switch it off or to look out of the window to see if he was imagining the light in Nick's house. He doesn't know what he saw. He can't remember Dean carrying him, or pain that profound, but it was so real…

It _is_ real, though, and he knows it. It was the day he'd tried to kill himself; one of the memories that Sam doesn't have.

Dean would know, right?

Except, if Sam asks Dean about it, he'll freak out, yell, and deny the whole thing. Sam's not supposed to recollect these things. Dean doesn't even know that people are disappearing again, because Sam doesn't want to be treated like he is spun of sugar, any more than he already is. And the therapist said that the amnesia protected him from something horrible. Dean had asked him not to pick and scratch. He wanted Sam safe. And Sam gets that.

But how is it Sam's fault if they assault him like this?

Praying for the images to go away and leave him alone with his peace, Sam falls into an uneasy, nervous slumber. He dreams of finding Dean dead in his bathtub, crimson swirls of blood everywhere, and Sam wakes up horrified, nauseated, and rushes to check on his brother.

Even when he finds Dean snoring contently in his bed, though, Sam can't sleep all night. He gives up trying even that at around dawn and retreats to their father's old, empty room with his art supplies. He sets up the easel and begins to paint Dean. Dean sitting at their dining table in Omaha and staring at his anatomy notes. The entire memory makes Sam smile, and he's sure Dean will too, when he shows him. And curse Sam a bit, perhaps. And they'll hang it above that very dining table and Dean will grumble every time someone is amused by it.

And just thinking of all this has brought Sam's anxiety down notches. There is nothing about Dean that doesn't instantly calm Sam, and one of the only three people he can draw out of memory, apart from their mom and dad.

He starts mixing in the shades and just hopes and prays and prays that he and Dean won't end up regretting this visit to Lawrence more than Sam imagines they will. Because, again, Dean has more than enough to deal with, even without this crap.


	3. Three Days to Christmas

"You look like hell, sweetie, have you slept at all?"

Sam accepts a glass of wine from Ellen, taking a sip as she joins him at the armchair, leaning back and sighing.

"I'm good," Sam tells her, "and you didn't have to do this, Ellen."

He glances at Jo and Dean who are sitting at the dining table, Dean's shit-eating grin in place while he talks to her. Sam can't help but smile at that. Dean will never change.

"You two mean the same to me as Jo does," replies Ellen. "Of course I had to do this."

Sam sets his glass on the coffee table. "So… how's the case coming through?"

"What case?"

"Ellen." Sam bows his head, ears colouring for a bit. "I kinda overheard Cas…" he takes a deep breath. "Sarah told me too. About Carl."

She shuts her eyes for a moment. "You found out. I'm—"

"It's okay," he says. "That was a long time ago."

"Sweetie, I didn't want to scare you or Dean. We're looking, and he won't…" she presses her lips together. "It won't have anything to do with you two, okay?"

"You suspect Nick again?"

She hesitates. "I'm not allowed to talk about it, Sam."

"Yeah, I know." Sam pulls off his glasses, presses the heel of his hand to his eye, and rubs it for a couple of seconds. "Nick's house is empty, though." He is careful with that statement, trying not to make it sound too much like a question, because he really needs to know.

"I know, we searched," she says. "It doesn't mean he can't be hiding elsewhere. And it also doesn't mean that it's Nick again."

So no one actually lives in that house. Because, someone else would have seen Nick, or that light in there, right? Obviously, it was just the reflection of the street lamp on Nick's window, or an electrical issue in his house that Sam had witnessed. However, Nick still being around somewhere, or a copycat killer would mean…

Sam swallows against the tightening in the chest, and feels some of the colour drain off his face. Ellen seems to have noticed because she is leaning forward, her hand clutching his shoulder the next moment. "Don't think about it. You have no part in it this time, okay?"

"So I had a part in it the previous time, right?" Sam looks at her pleadingly. "Dean won't tell me anything. You know that."

"It's for your own good," she says. "Listen to that boy."

"Ellen—"

"Do you wanna help decorate the Christmas tree, honey?" she asks him, changing the subject. "You're always emailing me about how Dean won't let you get one back at Omaha."

Sam looks at her for a moment, watches her eyes begging for him to not think about this, and nods. "Sure," he says. "Where is it?"

Ellen grins, and stands up. "Right this way. You and Jo and your brother can knock yourselves out decorating while I get lunch ready.

"I should help you, Ellen—"

"You just go in there, boy," she says, pulling him to his feet and leading him to her guest room. "Bobby's showing up in ten minutes anyway. What good is my subordinate if he can't lend a hand in the kitchen, huh?" She winks at Sam.

Sam relaxes and lets her push him, wondering how many years it's going to take before Ellen and Bobby realise how perfect they are for each other, and just get married. It's not that kind of love, no, but it's very different—very sweet, and they're always around for each other and helping and doing things together like they're already a family.

Then Sam gathers that maybe certain relationships don't need a label to them, and maybe Ellen and Bobby's case is just going to continue being one of those.

The thoughts of Nick erased from his mind at the warmth of that last realisation, Sam looks in awe at Ellen's large, beautiful Christmas tree and wishes that he and Dean had their own.

**~o~**

Dean gives Sam a sly grin when Sam decides to get ready for his date in the evening. "I'm leaving the house empty for you tonight, Sammy," he says, waggling an eyebrow. "But don't be too loud or you'll wake the neighbours up."

"It's just a date, Dean."

"Uh huh, and if you don't get her home, I'll do laundry a whole week."

Sam grins back at him. "Done deal. I'm off laundry duty then."

"We'll see about that," Dean replies, slapping Sam's back. He rummages in his pocket for the house keys and gives them to Sam when he finds them. "Lock up when you leave, okay? Don't forget."

Sam takes them and frowns. "So where are you crashing?"

"Cas's." Dean holds his hand up before Sam can speak. "Don't. We're marathoning _Star Trek_ because the nerd's into sci-fi now, and I'm sleeping on his couch. Ya happy?"

"Is he sleeping with you on the couch too?"

Dean just flips him off and starts to walk away.

"Dean…" Sam begins, feeling something clench inside his chest because he realises that in all probability (since he's not bringing Sarah home just after their second date), Sam's going to be alone in the house for the night and after what happened yesterday he can't…

Dean turns around. "Yeah, Sammy."

"I—" _Can you come back home?_

"I'll tell you if the ice skating is good and we can go tomorrow," Sam finishes, clenching his fists as he shuts his eyes briefly.

Dean scrutinises him for a whole moment, and Sam almost tells him what he knows about Nick's case having been open again. But, he doesn't want Dean to freak out. No.

"I'll see ya, okay?" Dean says in a soft voice.

"Yeah, okay," Sam tells him.

Dean hangs by the door a second as he looks down at his shoes. "And, if you need me, you can call, Sam. Anytime."

Sam can barely nod from the constriction in his chest when Dean leaves after that

**~o~**

Sam feels ridiculous as he stands in front of the mirror, fists clenching and unclenching at his side while he stares at his reflection. He dressed carefully tonight and he doesn't even know why. He isn't one for preening, or even caring what he looks like. Especially not on dates.

Something about Sarah is different from all the rest, though. It almost reminds him of Jess, who, like Sarah was also lively, intelligent and always crackling with positivity, and, like he used to be with Jess, Sam was _happy_ in the couple of hours he spent with Sarah yesterday. She's texted him a few times ever since and he'd texted back, feeling his heart leap whenever he saw a new message from her. He wants so _badly_ to impress her; for her to agree on a third date, it's starting to feel kinda stupid now.

He huffs out a laugh and moves away from the mirror, gathering up his hair in a half-ponytail. Sam usually lets it down when he's not teaching in the college or cooking or doing chores, but Dean always says Sam's "hippie" hair looks better groomed so he's hoping…

Fuck this.

_Will Sarah like it?_

Sam wants to dissolve into a puddle of his own embarrassment. How on earth did he get like this for someone he met two days ago?

He restrains himself from looking into the mirror again as he heads out, locking the door behind him like Dean told him to. Dean had left the keys to the Impala on the key peg downstairs and Sam wants to smack his brother upside on the head, as well as hug him right now. His phone vibrates at that moment and he pulls it out.

**Sarah Blake [6:26 PM]**

You ready?

He replies with a short _yes_ and heads out, hands in pockets, mist puffing out of mouth with each breath. He turns back to Nick's house to see that there's no light. He was really imagining things last night.

Thank God.

**~o~**

"So, you've never done this before?"

Sarah's trying really hard to control her giggles, Sam realises, as she entwines her arm around his waist and guides him to the periphery of the rink. This stuff had seemed easy in the videos that Sam watched that afternoon, and though he knew for sure that he'd end up falling on his ass at some point, he definitely hadn't expected it to be thrice.

Sam's cheeks are hot with what he knows is redness. He lets Sarah glide him to the side and once they're there, she leads him to the rubber matting where he stands, holding on to her for support.

"When you came to pick me up wearing jeans," she says, "I assumed you were a pro. You _never_ wear jeans for your first time, Sam. They get wet and heavy."

And Sam knows this now because he feels ten pounds heavier, and _cold_. Sarah seems nonchalant about Sam's lack of knowledge when it comes to ice skating, though, and even a little amused, so he allows himself to relax a little when she takes his hands.

"Do you still want to do it?" she asks him, catching his gaze with a sweet earnestness. "I mean, we can just go back and try this tomorrow."

Sam feels his heart bound just looking at her. He doesn't want to ruin this date. He's done a lot worse than wet jeans, and he'll be okay. "No," he says, clearing his throat, "I'll be okay. Will you teach me?"

She nods. "Okay."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to make our second date a teaching session for you," Sam tells her.

"Hey, no hard feelings!" she says, grinning. "You do this all the time. Maybe it's just my turn to teach today, right?" She squeezes his hands, thumbs rubbing the back of his palms. "We're going to learn walking first. Let's get the skate guards. Come on."

Half an hour later Sam finally finds his footing on the rubber mat. Sarah's hands are still tight on his as he takes small steps, depending on her for balance and she helps him without mocking him much, which is saying something because Sam's pretty sure he looks like an idiot right now. His legs shake and knees wobble but he manages to keep them both upright.

That is until a while later when his knees decide to throw in the towel. Sam stumbles forward, bodily crashing into Sarah.

"Sam!" she squeals, too small for him. "Shit, no!"

They're on the floor the next moment, a tangle of skates and legs and arms, and Sam's on top of her, feeling the cold wetness on the knees of his jeans again, his face buried in her hair. He breathes in the scent of apples before slowly disentangling himself. "Sarah, I'm so sorry," he mutters as he slides back and holds out a hand to help her. She props herself on her elbows, eyes widened in shock, and Sam knows he blew it. He just does.

But the shock melts away from Sarah's face, giving rise to laughter.

She sits up, giggling hard and Sam looks at her, at the strands of hair falling on her face while she bends over clutching her stomach. Her features are scrunched up, skin colouring a deep red and tears make their way out of her screwed-shut eyelids as she starts to shake her head. And she gasps and gasps between each fit while she chuckles and Sam just sits there, watching her dab at her eyes.

She's beautiful. She's fucking _beautiful_.

He watches and watches; looks on at her until she stops and looks back at him.

"Come on," she says, cheeks still shining with tears. "We're doing this today." She sniffs, leans forward and touches his dimple. That's when Sam realises that he's grinning too.

They manage to get back up and not fall again. Sarah teaches Sam to maintain his balance on ice next and helps him glide. It's not too easy but it's not too difficult, Sam thinks, as he bends his knees, arms spread out, with Sarah skimming easily beside him, almost as if she's weightless. She holds him around his shoulders, supporting him, and slowly pulls him straight as she moves her grip to his waist.

He clutches onto her, still bending forward slightly at his middle, watching other skaters whiz by as he and Sarah move at relatively slow speed. Their legs are in sync and her hair brushes against Sam's skin, giving off occasional whiffs of apple as he holds her, small and warm. They talk intermittently. Sarah tells Sam about Dean's notes, which she has in her bag, and they both discuss work and siblings. Sarah gets sad at the mention of Carl, though, so Sam doesn't hold that topic too long.

"I want to become an anaesthesiologist," she tells him, sounding dreamy and passionate, and Sam smiles at the tone. "It's such an important job, you know, but no one ever thinks of it that way."

"I get you," he says, and she looks up at him.

"I think you do," she says. "Only a teacher can understand what an underestimated job really means." She pauses. "So are you going to open your own law firm?"

"Maybe," he says. "Or I'll go solo once I have experience. I want to be a criminal law prosecutor."

"And you'll make a great one," she says. "So you'll continue to teach even after…?"

"Maybe not teaching, but I'll definitely still paint," he replies. "Can't let go of that."

"I understand passion when I see it," says Sarah. "You're going to be so great, Sam. I hope you and Dean really find whatever you're looking for, you know?"

He nods. "You too."

She smiles ruefully. "Right now, I only want to find Carl."

He tightens his arms around her. "You will."

She leans into him, letting him hold her up just as much as she's supporting him right now as they continue to glide slowly. Sam is feeling slightly more confident on the skates, although he knows he'll have to do this a few times to actually get a hang of it. However for the rest of it Sarah doesn't talk, doesn't say anything else and Sam knows she's thinking of Carl. And he lets her. For her situation she's holding up far better than he would, if it had been Dean instead of Carl. And he thinks she's really brave.

They both know they want to go even without saying another word and when Sarah starts to lead them back to the entrance, Sam isn't hesitant to leave at all. He lets her take his hands again and once they're on the rubber mats, without thinking, Sam bends over to kiss her.

He takes her cool lower lip between both of his, sucking at it softly while he thumbs her chin. She reciprocates, her warm, wet tongue brushing against his mouth, and Sam sighs. She tastes of cranberries, her hair silky against Sam's fingers as he cups her neck. Simultaneously, her hands move up and down his sides, rubbing against his waist, before she brings up a palm to frame his face.

Sam smiles when they pull away, foreheads and noses touching, and Sarah kisses him on the lips again, briefly. His entire body is filled with warmth from the softness of her lips against his, and he can't help but lean in for a third kiss. And they peck at each other's mouths, again and again in between chuckles before finally parting for good and heading over to return their skates, hand in hand.

**~o~**

Dinner is supposed to be at a small burger joint that Sarah claims to have discovered during her stay at Lawrence. "Carl got takeout from this place once," she says as Sam steers the Impala as per her directions. She looks at him for a moment. "Aren't you cold at all?"

Sam's legs have long gotten used to the chilly dampness of his jeans. He shrugs. "I'm good."

"We could still do this tomorrow, you know."

He parks his car outside the burger joint and inclines towards her for another kiss. "I want to do it today."

"Fine with me," she whispers, a sparkle in her eyes when they break apart. "But Sam, you'll get sick."

"I'm—"

"Let's meet first thing in the morning, okay?" she says. "I'm not up to much anyway. We can do breakfast burgers if they're a thing."

Sam laughs at that. "Breakfast burgers are definitely a thing. And Dean will agree." His heart is sinking, though. He doesn't want to leave right now. He hasn't felt this great, this blissful in ages.

Sarah seems to notice that. "I'm not blowing you off," she tells him softly, cupping his face in her hands. "From what you've told me, I'm pretty sure Dean will kill me if I don't return you home the way I borrowed you. And that scares me."

Sam chuckles again, and nods. "All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," she says, and just when Sam puts the key back into the ignition, he's struck with an idea.

"Do you want to come home?" he asks her, on impulse. "I mean, not like that—I can cook, which I'm gonna do for myself anyway and—"

"I'd love to," she replies, before he can explain himself. "But Dean—"

"Dean's crashing with Cas."

"His…?"

" _Friend_ ," Sam snorts. "Although, you should ask him this question." He starts to drive the car back to their place.

"I'm sure he'll be delighted," Sarah replies, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, he'll bless you for the rest of your life," Sam mumbles, and he and Sarah end up laughing again, for the umpteenth time.

**~o~**

"This is a nice place you have," says Sarah as Sam puts the keys on the peg and shucks off his jacket. They take off their wet shoes and put it on the side. "I like old houses," she says, her eyes stopping briefly at the timeworn furniture, stained carpet, and dusty TV. "It's like there are so many memories and good times trapped in here."

She doesn't know the half of it, Sam realises, as he watches her smell the musty air which never quite left.

He palms the peeling wall while she continues to admire the house, staring at it a moment. "Sometimes I can't believe I spent seventeen years of my life here," says Sam. "It's kinda… odd to be back after so long, you know."

"I can see that," she says, "especially as you almost didn't stop in front of your house."

Sam scratches at the back of his neck. "Been a while since I was here last."

"I know," she says. "Not a problem. Good thing I knew the way, right?"

"Yeah." He snorts. "So." Sam shuts the door behind him and gestures to the sofa. "What do you want for dinner? We have some taco shells and there's chicken in the fridge from this morning."

She shrugs. "Good enough for me."

"Cool."

After helping Sam light the fireplace, she follows him to the kitchen where he puts the taco shells in the microwave. He sets it to heat, turns to her, and plants a kiss on her mouth. "I'll just change into some dry clothes, okay?"

She nods, stroking his cheek with her thumb, and he takes two stairs at a time because he wants to be back with her and not miss a moment, and _Jesus_ , she makes him so dizzy…

He changes in record time and the microwave beeps just when he's back. He leaves the shells there and puts a skillet on the stove. Sarah is shredding the chicken into a bowl and Sam immediately moves over to help her but she slaps his hands away.

The tacos are ready in fifteen minutes. Sam brings the food to the table along with a couple of beers and seats himself across her. Her toes find his foot under the table a minute later, running up them soft and slow and Sam pushes himself forward gently to let her play with his pant leg as her sole comes down to massage his ankles. Then she runs her toes further up, over his shin, winking at Sam when he looks up from his taco.

Her foot touches his teasingly. The feel of her skin against his is tantalising; deliberate and seductive, easy, arousing, and Sam tightens up, unable take it anymore. There are goosebumps all over him and his heartbeat starts to quicken. He can feel a flush rise in his cheeks and he finishes his food, trying not to pay attention to the feel of Sarah's gentle toes dragging over and over…

She tangles ankles with him, biting onto her last taco with a measured _crunch_. Sam's palms are sweating. He drinks his beer and waits for her to finish while he quells he urge to run away. The moment she's taken her last bite, Sam's breaking away their contact and getting to his feet to grab both their plates. He doesn't meet his eyes with her because he doesn't know if he can do this with her. It had been at the back of his mind when he invited her over but he's not sure… he doesn't—

He's washing the dishes at the sink when she enters the kitchen, leaning at the doorway. He steals a glance at her, and then concentrates on the plate under the tap. He doesn't want to disappoint her. He doesn't want to make her feel like she doesn't mean something, because fuck, she does, and it's been only two days since he's known her. It's so scary.

And he can't forget _her_. Ruby. Can't stop thinking of those horrors whenever he thinks of taking this ahead with Sarah.

"Sam," Sarah says, interrupting his thoughts, "I had such a great evening with you." There is a pause, and Sam continues to wash. "I guess I should show myself out. Will you text me?"

Sam clears his throat. "I-I will… I, uh… yeah."

"Okay," she replies, sounding slightly down. "I'll see you."

He hears her walk away and collect her things from the living room. The door opens and she's leaving, and that's when it hits Sam all at once. No. This is Sarah. This is not Ruby. He won't let this get like it did with Ruby.

He turns off the tap and sprints to the hallway. The next moment, he's opening the door and she's right there, about to go home, but Sam grabs her and turns her around to kiss her.

They stumble inside, still kissing, her tongue soft and tantalising on his mouth as she kicks off her shoes. She pulls him closer, dislodging Sam's glasses and he quickly takes them off to put them on the side table. He folds her in and sucks and nibbles at the skin on her neck, feeling her hands frame his collar before one of them lands at his nape. Her other hand continues down his chest. He palms her waist and moves upwards, just as she finds bare skin underneath his shirt.

Sarah pushes the door shut while they kiss again, Sam giving into the blissful pleasure of her fingers on him when she starts to undo the buttons of his shirt.

**~o~**

They're on the couch, tangled into each other with the blanket wrapped over them. Sarah is warm in Sam's arms and he looks at her, taking in her flushed face and her tousled hair and the lipstick smudges on her jaw from all the kissing.

She watches him observe her and then run his thumb over her chin to wipe away the red imprints, and she smiles. "What?"

"You're beautiful."

"And you're reasonably cheesy," she replies. She presses her forehead into his neck as he palms the small of her back, feeling the curve of her ass.

There is silence, except for the crackling of the fire. Sam buries his nose into Sarah's hair and breathes in the apples. "Do you want another beer?" He asks her.

"Would love it," she says.

He pulls the blanket off and sits up, feet touching the floor. Picking up his hair-tie from the coffee table, Sam pulls his hair up in a messy bun, trying to delay the moment to leave as he continues to drink her in. However, she smiles at him and rubs his arm. "I'm waiting. Go on."

He finds the last two pints in the fridge and is working on opening them when Sarah enters the kitchen, draped in his shirt. She's put it on inside out, buttons undone, and he grins as he hands over the beer. "You're wearing it wrong." He bends in for a quick peck on her lips, thumb brushing her nipple once.

"I know." She lays a hand on his ass when they separate, squeezing. "Does it matter?"

"Not really."

"Come on."

They sit on the couch, Sarah cross-legged and Sam gets his glasses back on before throwing the blanket around their shoulders. She'd grabbed his copy of _The Third Twin_ while he was in the kitchen, and she shoves it in his hands.

"You want me to read to you?"

"I want to read, Sam."

And Sam snorts, balancing his beer between his thighs as she curls into him, and opening the page where he left off. Sarah turns to the first page whilst holding up his part of the novel for him, and promptly starts to read.

Sam reads a page, maybe two, but he keeps looking at Sarah, wanting to tuck her hair behind her ear or kiss her neck and when it all becomes too much, he finally gives up on reading, just to sit back and watch. Sarah realises this a moment later. "Hey! Not fair!"

"I can't concentrate," he shrugs.

"How come?"

He smirks, and she picks up a cushion to throw at him, before putting the book aside. Then she sips at her beer. "So, if I ask you something, you'll be honest?"

Sam rests against the cushions. "Shoot."

"What are you so scared of?"

He grinds the base of his bottle against his lap, the sweaty glass cold against his bare skin. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—before. You had a hard time asking me out that first time. I saw Dean convince you into it. I don't know what he said, but you two were really talking something intense. And you still waited to get home to call me after that." She fiddles with the label on her bottle. "Then you didn't want to _believe_ , Sam. You were ready to run without listening to my explanation, when you thought I'm still married."

He was hoping she hadn't figured it out. Hoping she hadn't noticed. But there's no way he's telling her. She'll get up and leave. And… no. He _likes_ her. He likes her so much.

Sam scratches at his nose. "I-I'm just like that sometimes. Dean says I'm a grandma." He sniggers, trying not to make eye contact with her, but her hand comes to cup his face gently as she turns him towards herself.

"Then there's the question of _now_. When… after dinner." She holds his gaze. "You were afraid _again_. And, I thought maybe I'd said something… maybe I'd blown it."

"I told you why. It's not you, or anything you did, Sarah." Sam wants to run away from this conversation as images of Ruby fill his head. They never talked much, he remembers. It was sex and sex and sex. And shouting and insults and emotional manipulation.

They _never_ talked.

"Sam."

"It's not like that," Sam manages to say, as he tries to push Ruby away from his mind.

"Then what's it like?" Sarah's velvety palm is on his stubble. "Yesterday, you said you hadn't been on dates in a while. And that it's a long story." She pushes back a stray strand of his hair. "I have time today."

He puts his bottle on the floor, trying to forget Ruby again. Sarah moves closer to him, the warmth of her presence engulfing him again. The fire crackles on, orange and red and yellow, and Sam remembers burning a marshmallow on it and almost letting the whole house go up in flames He was about ten, and Dad had been so angry.

"So, am I imagining something here?" Sarah asks him. "Is this just a routine hook-up? Dates and sex and fun, and then, bye-bye?" Her voice is forlorn even as she says it, and Sam can't bear for her to think that way. He wants her in his life. Not in the sense that he wants to marry her, but in the sense that practically no one, with the exception of Jess has made him so happy and comfortable in such a short span of time, and Sam wants to work on this thing between them. To make it into late-night calls and surprise visits. To have Sarah as a friend, even if they have to go separate ways, like it happened with Jess.

He swallows, clenching and unclenching his jaw, wanting to say something, and then takes a deep breath.

"You're not imagining it."

"So, _why_ , Sam?" The "why" has a million questions buried underneath it.

"Sarah, I… I kinda like you."

"…But?"

"But… it's complicated."

She shakes her head. "Not fair. You said you'd tell me eventually."

"I will. But I don't know if you'd want to hear it."

She kisses his nose. "I want to hear anything and everything that you can tell me about you, Sam Winchester."

He chuckles softly. He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't know— _God_ , how did he even get so lucky? He hasn't dated in a while. He hasn't looked at women since Ruby. But even the first woman he's liked since then. Sarah. _God_.

"So are you going to tell me?" she coaxes him. "You might even get lucky after, you know?"

"I already did get lucky."

She bats at his arm. "You know what I mean."

He shuts his eyes and presses the mouth of his beer bottle to his lips. He takes his time swallowing down a couple of mouthfuls, and talks. "I used to have a girlfriend."

"Big surprise. And?"

"It-it was earlier this year. And wasn't like a long term… but we were together for a while. Eight months."

Sarah is still looking at him, urging him to go on, and Sam takes a deep breath, "She- uh… I guess I just had a hard time," he says. "It wasn't the best relationship I've had and it wasn't _only_ her fault either. The fights used to get bad. We could be nasty to each other. I said stuff that I wouldn't have, in my right mind. She would, too. And then she had a drug problem and she tried to get me into it and I almost did and I – it kinda scares me how much of her I imbibed into me when we were together. Dean hated her and I didn't like that, and Dean and I started dealing with our own differences for that. And… I wanted to live in with her and… she said if I wanted that, I'd have to break ties with Dean. I guess that got me to the end of my line.

"We broke up. It was bad. I said more shit I shouldn't have. Her parents were addicts who abandoned her. She grew up in foster homes and she hasn't seen much kindness and I'd promised myself I'd never be harsh. And I was… and ultimately, I walked away too." Sam has a lump in his throat. He doesn't _feel_ for Ruby—hasn't felt for her in ages, but when he also remembers everything he said to her, clear as crystal, and he wishes he hadn't stooped that low.

"You were angry, Sam."

"Yeah," he snorts. "And so was she. When I stepped away, she didn't leave it there. She kinda came to my workplace and broke it off with me in front of our clients at the office. And…" he rubs his forehead, "yeah, that was a bad day. I would have gotten fired and I still can't get how I escaped that."

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's just…" Sam purses his lips. "And then, well, the sex. I don't think I've had that much sex with anyone before." Bitterness fills him when he thinks of fucking Ruby in every corner of her house, and then his, and everywhere and every time, her sweaty, naked body grinding against his, and when she'd pull him into the public toilets and go down on her knees, or when he kneeled at the foot of her bed, her heels dragging against his back as he returned that particular favour…

"What we had was just… weird. Hypersexual. There were no real feelings. And we were horrible to each other. Ever since, I've gotten around to associating sex with her and I can't get that off my mind. It put me off, I guess. That's why it kinda freaked me out a bit to…" he makes a vague gesture with his hand. "I mean, I know it sounds stupid when I put it this way, but—" he stops when Sarah takes his hand and squeezes it.

"That relationship was just a bad idea," he says. "The reason I even met Ruby was that, Dean and I were in a rough place. We have those days when living in closed quarters just gets to our nerves, and I'd just stormed off to go drinking once. That's where I found Ruby. She changed me. I can't even blame her because I realised _I_ was fucking gullible. And I regret every shitty thing I ever said to Ruby, Sarah, but she wasn't the only one who _got_ it. I was awful to Dean. I kinda still wonder, if I'd have actually abandoned Dean, had I stayed with Ruby for a few more months. And it's not fair, how I treated him too. He's always been there for me, you know?"

"I gathered that. And you'd never do that."

"But I could have, and it scares me. And when I say Dean's always been around, I mean it. He never left. He stayed and he handled every mess I made. Especially when my fucked-up life has interfered with every dream or aspiration that he might have ever had."

"Sounds like a great big brother," she says quietly.

"The best," he replies.

She finishes her beer and puts the bottle down. "You remember, right, that I'm not Ruby?"

"Y-Yeah, I do. It was the first thing that I reminded myself of."

"You don't have to change for me," she says, "and I won't change either."

"I just, Sarah—"

"And," she continues, ignoring him, "Sam, you don't think I'd ask you to shut right the hell up if you talked crap to me? I have a mouth and can very well stand up for myself, you know. Besides, fights happen. In any relationship. The big ones and the small ones, and I know you're not that person, okay?"

He tears his eyes away from her and nods. He can still hear Ruby whispering sweet nothings into his ear, and then calling him a hippie failure the next moment, but this is _Sarah_ , and he needs to move on.

Sarah's hands go down to squeeze his shoulders as she gets off the sofa and comes over to straddle him. She takes his shirt off her, letting it fall in a heap onto the floor, reaches to get Sam's glasses off too, and Sam grins as he holds on to her flanks and lets her kiss him.


	4. Two Days to Christmas

Sarah is not pressed against Sam when he wakes up on his bed, too stiff and sore to even move. Last night had been vigorous and frantic and both and Sarah were sweating at the end of it all, finally having had to grab a shower to clean up before bed. He can still feel her on him, smelling of apples and tasting of cranberries and something else, gentle and rough all at once as they moved and rocked together with her beautiful eyes boring into his. Last night with Sarah was one of Sam's most exhilarating experiences.

He hoists himself up with a groan, listening to all his joints crack as he reaches for his glasses on the bedside table. Once he's in a sitting position he takes the blanket off and bends over to extract his boxers. He folds and unfolds them in his hand, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he feels a smile creep up on his face.

"I'm in the room with the painting!" Sarah calls out right at that moment from John's room as if she knew he was awake. Sam gets the boxers on and makes his way to her as fast as he can. He finds her standing before his canvas whilst donning his shirt again, but this time she's worn it right and buttoned it up. On the painting, Dean's face still a flesh coloured blob, except for his eyes and lips, which are splotches of different colours.

"Dean," Sarah whispers, before he can tell her.

He nods. "How do you know?"

"Just guessed it."

"Yeah, well, I was having a difficult time falling asleep and…"

"You don't need references for Dean." She grins. "I don't need references for Carl either," she tells him. "Or for that matter, my family. And my husband. When you spend a lot of time with some people, you know and observe every bit of them. Nothing escapes the eyes of people like us."

"You're close to Carl."

She shrugs. "Yep. Annoys him when I randomly start painting him, though."

"Same with Dean."

"You're really good," she says. "I should ask Dad to host your stuff sometime. He'll love it."

She thumbs the edge of the canvas once before turning around and palming his side. "I need to leave. Because—I know the police is doing everything, but I like to keep my tabs on Carl's case too. I do that in the mornings when I can go about asking people about him. So…" She swallows. "You know, he's the only one who doesn't fit the pattern. And I know I'm selfish for thinking this, but that's the only hope I'm hanging on to. I don't know why."

Sam puts a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. He'll be back."

"Yeah." She nods. "And when he does I'm going to punch him because who the hell visits a murderer's house for inspiration?!" She looks distressed.

"What?"

"Your neighbour," she says. "I know he was the one who killed those people the last time, and that they never even found the bodies. And Carl found out he was a painter earlier this year and he used to go paint there for hours to get his inspiration. He said it awakened his muse." She shuts her eyes for a moment. "I should have warned him."

Sam's heart is beating fast. Ellen had said it was empty… There was no one there.

He takes a deep breath, drinking in Sarah's distressed face. Ellen has to be right. She checked the house after Carl disappeared, so obviously, even if Nick had returned…

There is no one in that house.

_Oh God._

He can't fall apart. No. Not in front of her.

"Sam?"

Her voice is like sharp light breaking through a fog, and Sam blinks. He trusts Ellen. He trusts Dean. Nick is gone. So he pulls himself together and squeezes her shoulder. "You wouldn't know, Sarah, about Nick…"

She nods, moving away from him. "Thanks. And I'm sorry. I need to go. I don't…" She inhales deeply. "Like I said, no discussions of Carl."

"I'll see you later then," he replies, respecting her wishes. "whenever you want to. _If_ you want to. Although Dean and I are doing lunch this afternoon, so any time after that."

"I do want to see you." She grins. "Text me when you want to meet up. You can come up to my place and see some of my work and we can have some fun." And she looks up at him, the desolate expression melting away just a bit when she winks.

Sam laughs, nodding. "Yeah, sure, sure. Looking forward to it."

She bites her lip and starts to walk out, but not before her fingers come to grip his ass, clenching momentarily before she gives him a small pat and exits the room.

**~o~**

Dean finds Sarah's bra hidden between the couch cushions around noon. Sam knows she was looking for it before she left, and he feels like he should just die right there when Dean holds it up and grins at him. "Sammy, you sly dog!"

Sam grabs it from his brother. "Weren't we supposed to go out for lunch? Sarah told me about this—"

" _Sarah_ , ooh."

"That's her name."

" _That's her name_ , ooh."

Sam feels his nostrils flare. "Very mature. So did you leave your boxers at Cas's too?"

Dean stops smiling. "So what did your girlfriend say?"

"She uh—" _girlfriend_. No. "She's not my girlfriend, and she suggested this place that apparently has great burgers. I know you will be interested."

"Sure," says Dean. "Get your coat. We'll leave now."

Sam checks his watch. "It's not lunchtime."

"I know."

"So—"

"We're going to pick out a Christmas tree for you."

Sam feels his jaw drop. "What?"

"Uh." Dean looks away, rubbing his sole against the carpet, "look, man, you obviously really want it."

There it is. Added to the list of a million things that Dean forces himself to do, just for Sam. Even when he clearly doesn't want any part in it. Sam feels the mortification leak into him slowly, burning him and licking at every inch of his soul.

He clears his throat. "No, it's okay."

"Sammy, I want it too, okay? I mean, it's ten fucking years since Dad's been gone, and you're right. I sure as hell need to move on."

"No, you don't have to." Sam seats himself on the couch, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "You don't have to force yourself to do anything, okay? I was out of line that day." There's a burning in his throat and at the back of his eyes and Sam hates that Dean is giving up something else for him.

"I'm not…"

Sam feels the cushions dip beside him, and Dean's arm comes up around his shoulders. "Hey," he says. "It's just a Christmas tree. I'm not selling my soul or something. Stop getting so emo about it, man."

Sam shakes his head. "You shouldn't have to. Always compromise for me, I mean."

"You can't tell me that," Dean says. "You can't tell me what I should and shouldn't do for you. That's for me to think about, okay? Don't tell me how to do my job."

Sam rests his head on his brother's shoulder. "And your job is—"

"To look after my pain-in-the-ass little brother," Dean says, as though he's never given a second thought about it. As though it's never been anything else. Sam knows that it literally hasn't been anything else either. Dean functions according to Sam's needs. Always has. Fuck this, because, _fuck you, Dean, you don't get to do shit like this._

"And there we go with a fine, holiday-style chick-flick moment." Dean kicks Sam's leg. "Go get your coat," he says, pulling away and ruffling Sam's hair. "We're getting the best fucking Christmas tree ever."

**~o~**

"Get a Caesar salad here for my brother, and a bacon cheeseburger for me. Extra onions and fries on the side. And two beers while you're at it."

Sam listens to Dean place their orders as he waits silently, a longing sadness swirling inside of him, that refuses to go away. They hadn't found a Christmas tree, and even though Dean had sworn it shouldn't be such a big problem getting one even if it's so close to Christmas, Sam has to disagree. Then they'd just made their way back to the diner, driving across residential lanes with houses all decked up and children playing, and Sam had felt worse about not having anything. Dean had said that they could get the Christmas wreath and decorations, even without the tree. Sam, however, found that pointless.

"Just let it be, Dean," he'd said. "Let's go for lunch."

Instead of taking Sam's directions to the burger joint from last night, however, Dean had turned to an old diner on the other side of town. Sam hadn't even realised where they were going until they were there, and when they stopped, Dean had pointed at the place smiled at him. "Remember this place, Sammy?"

And of course Sam remembers it because they'd come here a lot with John, when they were kids.

"You get your salad, and I'll get my cheeseburger," Dean had said, and Sam had wanted to hug his brother.

"You're not going to hug me and cry or something, are you?" Dean had asked right at that moment, and Sam had laughed.

"No, you asshole."

" _Asshole_? Maybe respect your big brother some more, eh, Sam?"

"No."

Dean had flipped him off before getting off the car and now, here they are, waiting for their orders. Sam looks around the diner and sees the unchanged waitress uniforms and the little framed quotes on the wall. The seats are plastic and the tables are still made of pitted wood, like they were a decade ago. It's funny how everything and nothing seems to have changed at once.

"So, uh," Dean leans forward. "You gonna extend your stay?"

"Why?"

"You seem interested in that Sarah chick. I figured you'd like to hang around."

"And you're leaving?

"Sam, you know I have classes to get back to, or I'd stay with you."

"No."

"No?"

"I'm not staying back."

"Oh come on," Dean says, "don't be a baby. You're obviously into her. Take some time off, man. Give yourself a break!"

"And you know I'm into her because…?"

"Because you're not me. Duh." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude. You don't do casual. You go out on fifty dates and do the whole flowers and chocolates shit and write poetry and love songs about the first time you sleep with someone. So if I've come around to finding your girlfriend's underwear around the house already, you obviously mean business."

"And did you forget about Ruby?" Sam asks him. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not staying back. I'll stay in touch and meet Sarah over time, but right now I plan to return to Omaha."

"Because of Ruby." It isn't a question.

"Dean—"

"She doesn't count," he replies.

"She does."

"That wasn't you, Sam. Doesn't count."

Sam narrows his eyes at his brother. "Let's be clear, okay? It _was_ me. Every single moment of those eight months with Ruby? All me."

"For the love of God, Sam, _shut up_. So some skank tried to get you to do drugs and cut ties with your family. Did any of it happen?"

Sam swallows and shakes his head. "Exactly," Dean tells him. "I haven't seen you so fucking happy in a while and obviously, this Sarah girl is good news. And like you told me to move on from Dad the other day, it's your turn now."

There is a moment of silence as Sam blinks up at his brother, bringing a hand to rub at his face. "I want to come back home," he says, and he cannot get the, _I think this place is making me crazy_ part out without feeling like he'll choke, so he stops himself there. Plus Dean still has no idea that Nick might be here again.

"I'm a big boy and I'll decide how and when I want to meet Sarah. Okay? But for now… Dean, I just want to go back home." His throat tightens and right now he just wants to get out, from those weird flashbacks or memories or whatever those were, and Nick, and this place, but he also doesn't want to freak Dean out so he wants to be able to stay as long as they'd planned.

It takes Dean a while, but he nods. "We'll go home, Sammy."

And Sam knows he did not need the words to understand. "Fine."

"Don't say _fine_ like that."

"Like what?"

Dean smacks the back of Sam's head.

"Ow!" he protests, indignant.

"Shut up, bitch."

"Jerk."

**~o~**

"So you're an amazing artist yourself." Sam is sitting at the foot of Sarah's bed, playing with the elastic on her panties. He smirks as Sarah twitches, knowing that the teasing is slowly getting to her. Her house is quaint and small, art everywhere, save some pictures of her and Carl and their family. Carl shares Sarah's light brown eyes and dark hair, Sam noticed. He has the same nose too, and the same smile. It made him chuckle a little when he saw that because he can't count how many times people have told him and Dean that they don't look like siblings at all.

 _Yeah, 'cause you're adopted,_ Dean would say when they were kids. _We picked you up from a dumpster_. Sam was five the first time this had happened. He'd cried at Dean's words and Dean had called him a crybaby and left. The moment he was out, Sam had emptied his piggy bank and tried to run away, but he'd tripped on the sidewalk, skinned his knees, and cried again, loudly, until Nick found him and brought him back to John.

He doesn't remember any of this, of course. It's a story John loved to repeat over and over when they were older and Sam never thought he'd miss his dad telling that story again. Now he just wishes things could be good and uncomplicated again, although, he can't complain because they pretty much are, for him and Dean at this moment.

Sarah had given Sam a quick tour, explaining how their father spoiled them by renting Carl a whole house instead of an apartment. Something about the place made Sam uncomfortable, though. Probably the fact that a young man had stayed here, going to college and painting, and, like Sam, hoping to live a carefree life.

Then Carl got taken.

It did not take too long after the tour however for Sam and Sarah to, as Dean would call it, _get to business._

Right now Sam's sweaty and his hair is tousled and Sarah is the same. They've been rolling about in bed an hour and Sam feels her exhilarating scent of apples sooth him every time she pulls him close. They'd made love several times, Sam shutting his eyes and enjoying each moment of it all. Sarah's excitement, however, mounted when Sam kissed her, and proceeded downwards, and ever since, she has been intolerant of his teasing.

She looks up from her pillow. "Just get on with it."

Sam snorts. "I will. For real, though, can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Once we're done, can I have a look at Carl's paintings?"

The answer is instantaneous. "No."

Sam feels his heart sink as he wonders if he crossed a line, but Sarah props herself on her elbows. "I just… it's too painful, Sam. When I find him, okay? Right now, I want him back, and he's not here, and…"

She sighs and lies back down. Sam reaches his hand over to take hers and she squeezes him hard. "It will be okay," she says. "I'll get him back."

"Yeah," he replies. "You will."

And she looks up and smiles at him, winking, and Sam gets right back to pulling down her panties and wrapping her legs around his neck as he puts his face between them, taking pleasure in listening to every gasp and sigh that he elicits.

**~o~**

Cas is home with Dean, preparing to leave when Sam gets back, Sarah's musky taste lingering in his tongue, as is the feel of her hands all over his body. She is so beautiful and kind and smart and _hot_ , and Sam knows Dean will probably know everything from one look at him, but he barely keeps himself from smiling when he meets them. "Hey!"

"Look at that!" Dean raises his beer for him. "Man of the hour. And just as Cas is leaving too."

Cas reaches for him tan trenchcoat just as Dean says that, fastening his tie and giving Sam a tired smile. "I'll see you later."

"Is there an emergency?" Sam asks him.

"Yes," he says, and he looks disturbed and honest. "There has been a disappearance and I have been asked to report to the station immediately."

**~o~**

Yet another disappearance. _Shit._ Sam takes in a shaky breath as he stares after Cas, the feeling of foreboding engulfing him. He hates this, hates all of it. He wishes he could remember because he was associated with this and he knows, as much as Dean won't tell him. Sam didn't exactly get his double degree without his IQ.

"Sammy? You okay?"

Dean's voice penetrates through the uneasiness in his mind. He blinks. "I'm fine. It's just…"

"Just what?" Dean asks, frowning at him.

"This seems like what happened last time we were here," Sam states, nervously biting his lip. "I mean, people disappeared last time in the same way, right?"

"What?!"

"I didn't tell you," says Sam. "I overheard Cas talking about this the first day we were back. And then Ellen told me. I – I can remember some vague stuff from that last time, when those kids got taken. People are disappearing again and Sarah's brother was one of them. That's how she knows Ellen and Bobby. That's why she's here."

"And… is it Nick?"

"I don't know. It could be. Ellen didn't discuss it much." _I think it is Nick again._ "She said there's no one in Nick's house, though. They checked."

Dean blanches. Sam thinks he sees a hint of fear in Dean's eyes but before he can even begin to process it, Dean's face is a mask. "We can leave, you know," he says, his voice unusually calm. "I mean, we celebrated Ellen's fiftieth. We don't have any more reason to stay here, do we?"

Sam hesitates. He hates how being here is making him uneasy. One part of him almost agrees with Dean. But the other part of him is also curious, and Sam feels like he needs to know what's going on. "No. I want to stay," he says. "It's been so long since we've been here. And-and… it won't happen to us again, right? We won't be involved… or… I won't be involved… even if you won't tell me that I actually was."

Dean stays silent, which strikes Sam as odd. He'd expected Dean to argue back. He looks at his brother and is frustrated by how he can't seem to read Dean. Feeling like since they're already talking about the case, Sam decides take the risk and put forth the one thing that's been eating away at him ever since they've been here.

"Look, I know you hate that I keep bringing it up, but…last time, with Nick's family and the other victims… You said that they found Andy. I just…I was connected to it, wasn't I?" Sam asks, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it. "Just tell me the truth. I need a confirmation. That's all."

He doesn't miss the dark cloud of anger and pain that fleetingly crosses Dean's eyes. It's always there whenever Sam asks about it. And he knows better than to do it on purpose. But he feels like he's somehow connected to all this. He knows not to scratch, and after what happened the last couple of times, Sam's perfectly fine never scratching again for that matter. But right now, he feels like he can't let it go.

"Please leave it," says Dean, voice calm again.

"And they never found Nick?" Sam asks, knowing he'll have to stop soon enough. The look on Dean's face confirms that for him.

"No, they didn't. Doesn't mean they can't find him this time. They know how he works now, Sam. The guy can't do the same thing twice and still get away with it."

"Yeah, but—"

"That's enough. I've told you a million times before, and I'm going to tell you again, you don't need to poke around this, okay? If people are disappearing again, the police will find them." His voice rises up a notch. "And I told you not to think about this. I'm being very serious here. Poking and scratching at that piece of our past is not a can of worms you want to open up, trust me on that. It's nothing pleasant, nothing happy whatsoever. So quit it!" Dean snaps, his finger raised toward Sam.

Sam can count on one hand the number of times Dean's been this particular about something. As he is about to apologize, however, the room starts tilting slowly in front of him as his heart rate picks up.

Sam gulps and starts to turn around, not wanting Dean to find out what's been happening with him. He mumbles an apology and bolts towards his room, firmly shutting the door behind him.

" _Sammy, please be okay."_

_He knows that voice. Dean. But why does it sound so far away? He feels something shaking under him. He's lying on a flat surface. Everyone is talking around him. Why won't they shut up? It hurts. It hurts too much. Dean. He needs Dean._

" _He's losing… blood…we have…move fast."_

_He doesn't know that voice. Dean, where's Dean?_

" _De–"_

" _Right here, buddy. You're…be okay, all right… 'ammy?"_

_Sam feels himself starting to drift off as his eyes roll up towards the white ceiling above him. Dean's next to him. Sam's not worried. Dean won't let anything happen to him._

" _Dean…"_

Sam gasps, his back pressed into the door of his room. He blinks rapidly, almost surprised to find himself in his room. His hands scrabble over the floor as he tries to catch his breath but it's too much, his chest rising and falling in fast, short intervals, room spinning and his head feeling like it's going to fall off his shoulders.

 _God, not again._ His heart thunders against his ribcage, going quicker, and he can't seem to get his breathing to even out. Dean. He wants Dean. Dean can fix this.

"Sammy?" Dean calls out from the other side of the door, knocking.

He wants to call out, ask for help, but his voice barely goes above a whisper. He does the first thing that comes to his mind. He starts knocking back on the door in urgency.

"Sam, you okay? What's wrong?" Dean asks, concerned.

Sam tries to speak again but only manages hard, fast gasps. In desperation, Sam knocks louder, turning them into bangs, to the point where the door is shaking every time he hits it. His panic level rises as he wheezes helplessly, chilly sweat breaking on his forehead and sliding down in nauseating trails so it's dripping off his nose and cheeks. He feels the door start to open behind his back and he only just manages to scoot forward so that Dean can enter.

"Fuck!" Dean exclaims as he kneels in front of Sam.

Sam feels Dean's hand rest on back of his neck. "Hey, I need you to calm down. Look at me, buddy." Sam desperately raises his eyes towards Dean. _Please, fix this. I can't breathe, Dean. I can't breathe._

"Can't – breathe—" he gasps, instinctively clutching the bottom of Dean's shirt. _Why the fuck is this happening?_

"I know, but I need you to try. See me? See how I'm breathing," Dean enunciates, accentuating his own slow, even breaths. "Try and match mine. Just look at me, concentrate, and try and breathe with me, okay? In and out. In and then out. Can you do that, Sammy?"

Sam nods jerkily, eyes fixed on Dean as his stomach rises into his throat. He swallows and holds it in, watching the rise and fall of Dean's chest as he puts all his energy into trying to steady his breathing to mimic Dean's.

They've dealt with this before. _In. Out._

They can do this. _In. Out._

He doesn't know how, but just like it always did, it works. His heart slows, breathing evening, and soon enough, he doesn't feel as though he's going to pass out anymore.

The room isn't spinning anymore. Sam gulps, feeling less nauseated than he was, but still not willing to take chances. He looks up at Dean who is watching him with nothing but pure care and concern and for a second, he feels guilty. Dean has to deal with his shit yet again.

"Sam, I can _hear_ you thinking. Stop. Just focus on one thing for now, okay?"

"Dean—"

"Seriously, Sammy, do we need to leave? We can pack right the fuck now. I know we're not in danger this time but I won't stay here if this shit is affecting you."

Sam bites his lip, tastes blood. "I – no, Dean, he's… like you said, he's not coming after us."

"Damn right. He won't hurt you again." Dean puffs his chest. "And I won't let him."

"I know."

Dean softens. "It's okay, Sammy. You're okay. You just need to rest."

Sam listens to him and looks into his big brother's earnest eyes as he tries to bury those thoughts into the back of his mind.

He takes deep, steadying breaths and lets his head hang, his chin falling towards his chest. His body hurts and his head throbs. He feels exhausted, like he's run a marathon. His heart is pretty much settled but there is a slight, constricting pain in his chest that never left. Shit, he really hates panic attacks. He hasn't had them in years and he never missed them.

"How about we don't talk about Nick for a while, huh?" Dean asks, smiling slightly. "I think Cas leaving like that wasn't as smooth as he made it to be."

Sam chuckles, stumbling to his feet and refusing Dean's helping hand. "I'm okay. Thanks," he says.

"Don't mention it. You good?" Dean asks as he stands up too.

"Yeah, I'm okay. I'll be fine."

Dean listens to him but scrutinizes him anyway before shrugging and placing a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "Fine. Do what you gotta do. Holler if you need me, okay?"

"Okay."

Sam watches his brother's retreating back. and flops down onto his bed, tired and fatigued to the very bone. His hands shake as he runs them through his hair. This is the first time in the last few days that something he remembered actually made him panic to the point of an attack. He knows he tried to kill himself. It was the second thing that Dean couldn't hide from him (the first being the truth about Andy), and Sam's always hated the scars along his wrists for it. The first time he'd remembered that incident two nights ago, however, Sam hadn't felt so horrible.

Having had enough for today, Sam heads to the bathroom, splashes some cold water onto his face to feel a little better and heads out, hoping he can be a child again and ask his brother to sit with him while he sleeps, knowing that he'll feel better around him than by himself in his room. But he's not a child anymore, so he mans up and decides to calm himself some before hitting the hay.

**~o~**

Sam sits near the window, content, _The Third Twin_ in his lap as he pulls the hair off his face to fasten it with a hair tie. He tucks a stray strand of it behind his ear, contented, and opens up to the page he'd last been on, hitching his glasses up his nose. It's engrossing.

He's at the part where Steve's dad is visiting him in prison and his heart warms when Steve explains everything and his father just listens, without even doubting it and promising to stand by his son. And that in itself brings a lump to Sam's throat because as tough as John was, he'd probably be the same too.

Sam's used to it now, but sometimes the absence of their father still pulls at him, bringing back a longing sadness. So he leans back, shutting his eyes and remembering their last Thanksgiving together when a sudden sound shakes him out of his thoughts. A hand lands on Sam's shoulder and he jumps, the book falling to the floor.

It takes him a moment to realize it's Dean.

"Whoa, dude, chill," his brother says to him, raising his hands in supplication. "It's just me."

Sam chuckles nervously, his heart still beating a mile a minute. "You scared me. Give some warning, would ya?"

Dean throws his shit-eating grin at Sam. "Now that I know you flip out so easily, I'm gonna do it all the time."

Sam groans, turning back to his book. "What do you want, jerk?"

"Nothing, bitch. Just came to tell you that I'm gonna hit the hay and that you should too."

Sam nods. "Yeah, okay, in a few minutes. You go on ahead, I'll head to bed soon."

Dean shrugs and retreats to his own room. Sam watches him leave again, sighs and glances out the window before turning back to his novel.

He does a double take. _Nonono._

His eyes zero in on Nick's house, mouth going dry when he realises he wasn't imagining it. A feeling of dread rises through him, encompassing him and extending to his very cells.

_Oh God, no, no, this can't be._

Nick's light is switched on again.

"Dean!" he yells out instinctively. "Dean!"

He anxiously looks towards Dean's room to see him stumbling out, alert. "What? What's wrong?!"

Sam points out the window. "The lights! They're on. Someone's there, Dean!"

Dean frowns at Sam, then looks out the window. He then turns to Sam with a worried look on his face. "Sam, nothing's there."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asks, outraged. "It's right—" he stops midway when he looks at it again. The house is in complete darkness. No light shines out from any window. "What?" he voices his disbelief. "I just saw it, I swear!"

"Maybe you imagined it."

Sam glares at Dean. "I know what I saw. It was there, Dean! It was…" his shoulders slump in defeat. "It was there, I promise." Is he going crazy? Did he really imagine it?

"Sammy, there's nothing there. Besides, you look really tired and it's been quite a day. How about we head to bed?" Dean coaxes.

Sam doesn't budge, eyes glued to the house across the street. He knows what he saw. "I don't…something's not right. Dean, I'm not lying," he pleads, shaking his head and wanting his brother to understand how much this means to him. How terrified he is of it. Or is he so screwed up from another person going missing just now, that he's imagining this?

"I know, buddy. How about we figure it out in the morning? Come on," Dean says in a placating tone, tugging lightly on Sam's arm, like Sam's a basket case and—

"No!"

He was sure. So fucking sure. He _saw_ the light, and he isn't fucking _crazy._

"Sammy?"

"I saw it!"

"I know, I know—"

"I'm not a fucking delicate flower, Dean!"

"You're good." Dean's tug on his arm is stronger, and Sam flinches away from him.

" _No!"_

"Sam," Dean takes a step forward, and Sam backs away from his big brother, snarling and clenching his fists. Dean gets the signal.

"Okay." He holds his hands up in defeat. "Okay. I'll be in my room."

And Dean is out the next minute, slamming Sam's door behind him and getting him to flinch again.

Sam's heart sinks to his stomach at Dean's barely held-back temper. He sits on his bed, scared and helpless. He can't understand what's happening to him and it's freaking him out and he wishes Dean would believe him. But now he's pissed Dean off too.

He looks longingly towards his closed bedroom door. A part of him really wishes Dean was in the room right now. He remembers sharing a bedroom with Dean as a kid. How he'd always sleep facing his brother. How, whenever he'd have a nightmare, he'd always climb into Dean's bed who'd welcome him in without question, holding him as he finally fell asleep, safe in his brother's arms.

Sam sighs. He's not a kid anymore. He can take care of himself and he doesn't need to bother Dean any more than he already has. He lies down on his bed, on his side, facing the door. He closes his eyes and tries to calm down, remembering how Dean had helped him earlier in the day. He closes his eyes and imagines Dean next to him again, and immediately feels better.

Sam's in between the state of being awake and just falling asleep when he hears the click of a door handle followed by some rustling. He opens his eyes, squinting to see Dean kneeling on the floor, smoothing out crinkles in a sleeping bag which he's placed next to Sam's bed. For a moment he wants to tell Dean that he doesn't need this but he does, so he keeps shut and watches, feeling guilty. "Dean—"

"Just suck it up, Sasquatch. I'm not moving from here, so you can save your breath. Either way, it'll be just like old times when we used to share a room, remember?"

Sam gives his brother a small smile. How could he forget? "You want to take the bed? I could sleep on the—"

"Don't even think about moving your ass from there. I'm fine, Sammy. Don't worry about me. Sleep, okay? And wake me up if you need anything," Dean says, gentle again, and Sam is relieved to know he's not pissed anymore.

Sam nods in agreement and makes himself comfortable, pulling the covers over himself. While he still feels guilty, he also feels so much safer now. His eyelids soon start to droop and he slowly makes his way to dreamland, his last image being that of Dean lying next to him on the floor.

In the next half-an-hour, though, he is awake; Andy's terrified, aborted screams ringing through his ears.


	5. Christmas Eve

"Thanks, Cas," Dean says as he cuts the line.

Sam sits cross-legged on the sofa, his hair disheveled, glasses askew, bags under his eyes and his fists clenched tightly to stop his hands from shaking. He thought he'd have a good night's sleep with Dean in the room but he was sorely mistaken.

His night was haunted by images of white walls and hospital stretchers, of Nick, of the light in the neighbouring house. Hazy flashes and images of that Christmas Eve all those years ago assaulted him all through the night, to the point that he'd quit trying to sleep after five.

He'd padded about around the house, spending about two hours working on the painting of Dean he'd started. When that hadn't helped settle his nerves, he'd headed to the kitchen to make himself breakfast, his stomach grumbling. The results of his endeavour, however, had only caused the cereal and milk to land all over the kitchen floor, leading to a broken bowl and a very worried and concerned Dean.

"We don't need to bother him," Sam says in a small voice, feeling nothing but fucked up. He'd dropped the cutlery by jumping in fright as Dean had called out good morning to him. His hands wouldn't stop shaking and his heart wouldn't stop jumping at the smallest of odd sounds, the most embarrassing one being when someone decided to mow their lawn at seven in the morning and Sam had yelled out in fright at the loud sound of the motor starting.

He hates this. Every single thing about it. _Weak,_ his mind supplies to him. And it's probably right too. Why else would he be like this?

"We're not bothering Cas," Dean says, sitting next to Sam on the couch. "He's off duty today anyway and he said he'd love the company."

Sam doesn't reply to that, his eyes fixed on a loose thread on the leg of his sweat pants.

"Hey, what's going on? I know today is always hard for the two of us after what happened but you've never been this…this—"

"Screwed up?" Sam supplies, chuckling mirthlessly.

"I meant fidgety," Dean amends. "I thought it was my job to be all weird on Christmas Eve with you keeping me in check."

Sam shrugs, unclenching his fists and attacking the loose thread on his pants again, twisting and turning it, trying to rip it off. He blatantly tries to ignore how it takes him four tries to actually grip the thread with how hard his hands are shaking. "I don't know. I just…had a lot of nightmares. Didn't sleep well." He holds back the part about Andy. He's never heard those screams before. Never remembered that.

He didn't even think that was a part of his botched memory.

Did he… did he see Andy… _die?_

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Dean asks Sam, and Sam's eyes sting, the thought of his old best friend and now Dean's comforting voice overwhelming him. He clenches his fists, though, because he doesn't want to be weaker. Not weaker.

"Sam."

"Didn't want to mess with your sleep," Sam whispers, pain budding inside him. "You've already dealt with a lot of my bullshit over the years after Dad died. I didn't wanna add yet another thing to the list for you to have to worry about."

"What do you mean?" Dean frowns.

"I mean exactly what I said, Dean. You always deal with my bullshit. First, everything that happened after Dad died, and the fact that you had to go through it alone because I can't remember a damn fucking thing. Then Ruby. Now this. Do you really want me to keep going?"

He's just completed that sentence, when Dean pulls him so he's forced to face his brother. "I'm going to make this clear. Again. Nothing, _nothing,_ you ever do will be bullshit to me. My job is to take care of your ass, and I am perfectly happy doing it. We look out for each other, Sam. Remember?"

Sam gulps. Dean's right. They've always looked out for each other, more so after their father had passed. "Yeah, I do. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, okay? Come on, get dressed. We'll head to Cas's. And maybe get some pizza, you up for that?" Dean suggests, getting to his feet.

"Pizza sounds cool," Sam mumbles, shakily getting to his feet himself. He goes to his room and picks out a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, just hoping that this cloud of dread, of how he feels like something is about to go horribly wrong, is nothing.

**~o~**

" _You…supposed to… 'atch him, Cas!"_

_Dean? Why is Dean yelling?_

_Sam squints, hating the sight of the white walls. He tries to move, but a sharp pain courses through his arm. A bag of IV fluids hangs above him, both with a tube running into his vein._

" _Dean," Sam breathes, looking towards the door and seeing a blurry figure that looks like his brother, just outside the room._

_Sam pulls his hand towards himself weakly, annoyed at the cannula fed into it, and the sharp pulling at his wrists._

_There is no pain… he can't think…_

_Why is he in a hospital? He wants to know. He wants to leave. He hates hospitals._

" _I don't care, Cas! You screwed… my brother…'spital bed!" Dean is yelling. He sounds so upset._

" _De…" Sam whispers, feeling darkness cloud his vision._

A loud crash jerks Sam out of his stupor and he flinches as his glass of water falls to the floor and shatters. His heart feels like it's choking up his throat. "Shit," he curses, bending down to pick up the pieces of glass. He starts picking up the small shards first and has just moved onto the bigger pieces when the edges of one of them digs sharply into his finger. "Fuck!" he yells, the rest of the pieces falling out of his hands.

Muffled thumps reach his ears and he raises his head to see Cas hurriedly entering the small kitchen. "Sam, are you all right?" Cas's eyes, however, eyes spot the blood on Sam's finger, slowly creating crimson drops on the floor. "Crap," he says, kneeling next to Sam.

"Hey, it's okay. It's no big deal." Sam says, trying to stop his hands from shaking.

"You're not okay. You're bleeding."

"I'll be fi—"

"There's a first-aid box in the cabinet in the living room," Cas says, cutting across Sam. "Ask Dean, he knows where it is."

Frustration wells up inside Sam as he hesitates. All he's done is screw up everything he's attempted today and at this point, he just wants to help.

"But Cas—" A stern look from Cas however, stops Sam from speaking further. _He's probably pissed._

"Sam, you're hurt. Go get it patched up, okay? It's fine. I'll clean this up, it's no big deal," Cas says, his voice reassuring.

Sam hesitates, looking apologetically at Cas.

"Don't worry about it," Cas says, blue eyes sparkling with nothing but concern. I don't want you to hurt yourself again. Go and get Dean to help you, I'll be out in just a few minutes."

Sam nods, pressing his lips into a thin line to stop them from trembling. He walks out of the kitchen into the living room and slumps onto the nearest armchair.

"What's wrong? I heard something— _are you bleeding_?!" Dean is suddenly all over Sam, tugging his hand forward so he can see. "What the fuck happened?"

"I broke a glass of water. Just like I broke the fucking bowl back at our place," Sam answers, angry with himself as he pulls his finger back from Dean. Why the fuck is any of this affecting him so much? It's not like he's willingly or consciously scratching at the walls of his forgotten memories.

"Hey, it's okay. You're having a bad day. It'll pass, Sammy." Dean heads over to a cabinet in the left corner of the room and retrieves a small black box in which lie an array of basic first aid supplies.

"You don't know that," Sam retorts.

Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam's reaction but says nothing as he cleans Sam's wound with an antiseptic. Sam watches Dean carefully wipe the cut, blood staining the cotton.

_Blood everywhere. Bloodbloodblood._

Sam gulps, hands itching to rub the scar on his wrist. He clenches his free hand into a fist, taking a shaky breath which turns into a hiss of pain as the antiseptic stings the wound.

"Sorry," Dean mutters. He puts the antiseptic away, inspects the wound one last time before wrapping it up with a bandage.

"Okay, you're done. We'll have a look at it later before we head to bed just to make sure it's healing."

He nods, hands immediately flying to rub the scars now that Dean isn't tending to him anymore.

"Sam?"

Sam doesn't respond, gaze fixed on his arms as he stays mum.

Dean sighs. "I get it, okay? You're having a bad, fucked up, not so fun day. I have them too. Everyone does," He starts to pack up the supplies. Sam watches him, frustration and anger welling up inside him at Dean's words.

"You don't get it, do you?" He's tired. _So tired._ He clenches and unclenches his jaw, trying to keep his breaths steady.

"Since you think I don't, explain it to me, Sammy." Dean sounds and looks patient as he says it, folding his hands and leaning forward. "Tell me."

"I – I think I'm—" _going crazy._

"You what?"

"Never mind," Sam says. _Please help me._ "Let it be, you're right. I'm probably just having a bad day. It'll pass."

Dean keeps staring at him, suspicious, but Sam turns away. His brother doesn't need to know how screwed up he's gotten since they got back to Lawrence. Sam can handle this, he's not a kid anymore.

He feels Dean get up to put the first aid kit back, and is surprised but grateful that Dean isn't pushing. The next second something vibrates in his pocket and Sam jumps, hissing when he realises how silly this is because it's his fucking _phone._ Taking a deep breath to calm himself down and trying to ignore the fact that he knows Dean's staring at him, he pulls out his phone to see a text message from Sarah.

**Sarah Blake [7:39 PM]**

Hey, you free? Would love to see you.

Sam instantly feels a sense of calm he hasn't felt all day. He once again marvels at how much, in such a short span of time, Sarah has affected him. He looks towards Dean and then Cas who enters the living room and sits right next to Dean.

Dean squirms for a few seconds before shifting ever so slightly away from Cas, and Sam can't help but suppress a laugh. He remembers how even when they were kids, Cas never usually had a concept of personal space. And even back then, Dean would always be a little awkward and uncomfortable whenever situations arose where Cas ended up right next to Dean.

Cas frowns at Dean, having immediately caught the small movement by his friend. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine, man." Dean says, offhandedly. "Just… personal space, remember?"

Cas's eyes widen in realization. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"It's okay. Just…yeah. Personal space," Dean reiterates, hands animatedly marking the distance between them.

Sam smiles again, tuning out their conversation as he looks back towards his phone, trying to figure out what to do.

He doesn't want to be disrespectful to Dean and Cas by leaving, but he really wants to see Sarah too.

"Sarah text you?" Dean's voice penetrates through his thoughts.

Sam looks up from his phone, taken aback. "How did you…?"

Dean laughs. "Dude, have you noticed how much you smile when you're texting her? I'd know that goofy ass grin anywhere."

"Shut up," Sam mumbles, red in the face.

"So, what does she want?"

"She wants to meet up," Sam replies. "Asking me if I'm free to see her."

Dean arches up a single eyebrow. "So why are you still sitting here?"

Sam shrugs. "I, um, well, I don't want to leave and…I don't know, you brought me here and…"

"If you think we'll be offended if you leave, that's the dumbest thing, Sam. Go and see her, dude. And make me proud," Dean says, winking.

"Ugh, fuck off, jerk," Sam jokes. He feels a tingle of joy when he texts Sarah back, though, asking her where he should meet her. It's only a few seconds into sending his message that his phone vibrates with an answer.

**Sarah Blake [7:44 PM]**

My place? Coffee?

Sam hurriedly texts back a _yes_ and gets to his feet. He picks up his jacket and puts his shoes on, heading towards the front door.

"Make me proud, Sammy!" Dean repeats as Sam opens the door.

"You're disgusting, dude," Sam remarks, throwing his brother what he knows is a bitchy look.

"I know," Dean says, shit-eating grin on evident display.

"Oh, please, you're just happy you get to spend some quality time with Cas while I'm gone," Sam teases, almost enjoying the offended look on Dean's face while Cas turns scarlet. _Ha. Two can play at this game, jerk._

"You win," Dean says, pursing his lips. "Seriously though, take care of yourself. Call me if you need something."

"Will do," Sam waves goodbye to his brother and his friend before heading out the door.

A million emotions and thoughts run circles in his mind as he makes his way to Sarah's. He just hopes that spending some time with her will help calm him down a little. He'd hate for her to see him this way. So vulnerable. So _weak._ His problems and struggles are his own, not hers. She doesn't have to deal with the additional weight of him being a complete fuck up today. Sam inhales deeply, trying to calm down as he reaches her driveway.

Adjusting his shirt, he runs a hand through his hair and knocks on Sarah's door.

"It's open!" she yells from the inside.

He turns the knob and enters her home, looking around for her. "You aren't afraid of creepy stalker guys entering instead of me?" he asks. "Kind of unsafe to keep the door unlocked."

Sarah walks out of her room, grinning. "Well, I knew you were coming. And are you a creepy stalker guy?" she asks, walking right up to Sam and looking mischievously up at him.

Sam laughs for what feels like the first time in ages, throwing his head back. "I could be," he teases, gently pressing his lips to hers.

A few seconds later they part. Sam stares into Sarah's eyes and doesn't realize how long he's been staring until she clears her throat, an amused look on her face.

"Sorry," he says, scratching the back of his head, slightly embarrassed.

"You're cute when you blush," she teases.

Sam chuckles nervously, blushing even more. He feels a lot better than he did all morning, but as always, something about the house makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't understand why. He clenches his hands into fists when he feels the tremors start again.

 _Dammit, not again,_ he thinks. This is the last place he wants to freak out at.

"Sam? You okay?" Sarah asks. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not you. It's just…"

"What? You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"I just didn't sleep well. Nightmares," he says, dryly. "I lost my Dad ten years ago today and just… yeah. It never gets easy."

Sarah walks up to him and kisses him again before giving him a hug. "I'm sorry. That's horrible."

"It's ok. We're trying, Dean and I."

"And that's all that matters," she says. "How about you take a seat? I'll go get some coffee and we can talk to get your mind off the sad things."

"Okay. I could help, though," Sam says, making to follow Sarah into the kitchen.

"Nuh-uh," she says, pushing him into the couch. "You are going to sit your ass right there and I am going to go get the coffee. Be right back."

Sam taps his foot nervously as he watches her retreat to the kitchen, still feeling slightly on edge. He looks about the room, admiring what Sarah has done with the place when his eyes land on a slightly ajar door at the far end of the room. He knows he shouldn't be intruding but curiosity gets the best of him.

He gets to his feet and slowly walks over to the door, pulling it open. He spots easels and paint supplies and he realizes it's Sarah's brother's work. She probably kept it out of sight since it could remind her of her missing brother.

Sam is about to turn around to head back when he spots a painting sitting on the floor just near the edge of the door. He kneels down to face it towards himself, marvelling at the skill. It's a beautiful painting of a blue and white bird about to take flight. His eyes wander to the paint strokes and he gasps.

" _You're very good, Sam."_

Sam gets back to his feet, backing out, heart hammering against his chest.

" _Isn't it a fascinating medium to work with?"_

"Feathers," he whispers.

_Sam eagerly looks towards Michael, Nick's brother, who's inspecting his finished work while Nick seems to have headed into the house._

_Sam beams at his work. He'd been painting with feathers; something Nick had been teaching him for the past few days. It's a nice technique; not for completely painting something in itself, but for a texture that's pretty unique and beautiful in its own way. Nick's been talking about the importance of signature styles and how Sam should adopt one._

_Sam notices that Nick doesn't mention his wife or Max at all. Sam misses Max. But Nick probably does too and maybe that's why he's been quiet, haggard and a little off._

_Sam had gotten the courage that day to ask how Nick was doing and he'd answered by telling Sam that Michael was going to come over to offer some support and help until they found his family but he'd refused to say any more than that on the subject. Sam had understood, apologized and continued painting the bird in the cage in front of him._

_So now he is sitting on his stool with Michael standing next to him, and he can't help but feel that maybe Michael being around might cheer up Nick a little._

" _Brilliant work, Sam." Michael says quietly, from his place. "You are extremely talented."_

" _Really?" Sam asks, looking back at his painting._

" _Really." Michael has a kind smile on his face._

" _Thank you!"_

The back of Sam's legs crash onto the side of the couch and he stumbles, trips and ends up sprawled to the floor. He's just getting to his feet, staring at the now completely open door, when Sarah walks into the room.

"Sam?!"

His heart is showing no signs of slowing down and he doesn't answer, eyes still fixed on the doorway. He then feels himself being yanked and he's facing Sarah.

It's the hurt and anger in her face that shakes him out of his stupor.

"What the hell, Sam?! Who gave you the right to go in there?" she accuses, glaring at him.

"I'm…I'm sorry…I…Where did he learn to paint like that?"

Sarah frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Feathers. That painting with the bird. The texturing. Where did Carl learn to paint like that?"

"I don't know," Sarah shrugs, still looking hurt.

He clutches her tightly by the shoulders. "No! No, tell me!"

Sarah fidgets, failing to get out of Sam's tight grasp. "How am I supposed to know?!"

"He's your brother! How do you not know?" Sam accuses, his tone rising as he shakes Sarah. This can't be possible. There's no way Carl would know how to paint like that.

Unless…

"Sam, stop."

"Please. Tell me. Please. Where did he learn that?"

"You're hurting me!" Sarah yells out, finally shoving away Sam's arms and taking a few steps away from him.

Something breaks inside of Sam. His eyes land on Sarah's arms and a block of guilt settles into his gut as he sees the imprints of his nails near her shoulders as they'd dug into her skin. He feels sick. What has he done? What the everlasting—

"Fuck," Sam breathes, tremor after tremor rocking through his body as it all crashes into him in waves.

Nick was the only one who knew that painting technique, apart from Michael. And Sarah had said Carl had visited Nick's place. Nick was the murderer then, and even though they can't find him now…

Sam gasps, both hands flying into his hair as he takes a few unsteady steps backwards. He's here. He is fucking here. Sam's sure of it. There's no other explanation for this. That house is inhabited and Sam wasn't imagining it.

He manages to find his voice. "I'm-I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Sarah. I never meant to hurt y-you. I know I - I shouldn't have looked. I'm sorry, I…I have to go."

"Sam?"

"Don't worry. It's not you. I shouldn't have…I'll make this up to you, I – I promise. I just…I really have to go, I'm sorry."

He gives her a look that he hopes conveys how apologetic he is and heads out the door, legs trembling beneath him.

**~o~**

**Sam [8:16 PM]**

Daen, whree are u?

**Dean [8:16 PM]**

Sammy u ok

**Sam [8:17 PM]**

Wherr re u, Dean?

**Dean [8:17 PM]**

Home

**Sam [8:17 PM]**

k. im comngg.

Sam tries to calm down as he fists his hands together to stop them from shaking while he makes his way back home. He feels like it's a miracle he was even able to type on his phone. He needs to tell Dean. He needs him to know.

**~o~**

Dean's opened the door before Sam even makes it to the front porch.

"Sammy, what's wrong? You _never_ type like that."

"Dean, Nick's here. We have to tell Ellen, or Bobby, or someone. Nick is _here_ ," Sam rambles as he walks into the house and closes the door behind him.

"Whoa, slow down there. What do you mean Nick's here?"

"Please just trust me!" Sam pleads, his voice raising in volume. "I saw this painting in Sarah's house that her brother did. It was painted with feathers, Dean."

"And?"

"The only other person I know who liked to paint with feathers was Nick. I remember, okay? Michael - his brother - was there the day I finished my painting." Sam turns, arms flailing as he gestures towards 1626. "It's Nick. He's in that house!"

"Sam, how about we leave that to the police to figure out?"

"Why won't you listen to me?!" Sam yells, his hands flying up to his hair and yanking on them. "I'm not making this up!"

"Sammy." Dean walks towards him, his arms raised to pacify but Sam angrily shoves them away, wanting nothing more than for Dean to believe him.

"Fine, fine." Dean gives up and stands back. "How about we go on a walk and talk about this?"

"You want to go on a walk? Now?" Sam asks, dumbfounded.

"I'll listen, okay? Remember that old trail we used to hike on, couple of years ago? Come on," Dean says, grabbing Sam with him as they walk out the door. It's chilly outside, and Sam has to pull his scarf tighter around his neck. Dean keeps a hand on his forearm, though, gently guiding him along the frozen path.

Sam stays silent through the walk to the hiking trail, his mind only working on how to make Dean believe him. To make Dean understand that he's not crazy, that it's true. Because… he can't be, can he? He's – he's not crazy anymore. Even ten years ago, Dean had said to Sam that Sam was hurting, not crazy, but Sam didn't believe him. So where had all that faith gone now? Why couldn't Dean convince Sam of that _now_?

The racing thoughts are making him queasy and he tries to catch his breath. Dean is still there, just a few inches away but he seems so far now. He needs to understand. _Please_. He needs to understand and listen to Sam.

Halfway there, it starts snowing and Sam pulls his jacket tighter on himself, bowing his head against the cold weather. He shivers through his layers and he can't help but feel like the chill is _inside_ him, rather than just the weather. He has goosebumps everywhere. He is tired and nauseated and he can't think, and…

Dean's hand on his forearm squeezes reassuringly. As though he knows. Sam can feel the lump in his throat rising again, threatening to overwhelm him and make him cave.

"Okay, talk," Dean says to him, kicking a frozen pebble to the side. His hand leaves Sam's forearm and goes to his back, staying there. They start the trail and it's getting dark, the path lonely and desolate as they keep walking. It used to be greener in summer, prettier, but Sam's barely paying attention now as they trudge slowly.

"Sammy." Dean's hand on his back rubs lightly, just once, and Sam feels like he's about to fall down from the burden on his heart and his mind.

"Dean…"

"I'm here. Tell me, kiddo."

"P-Please, believe me." Sam begs, feeling like he can't hold it together anymore. His eyes sting.

"I do believe you."

"No, you don't."

Dean sighs. "Just talk to me, man. I'm listening. I promise."

Sam shuts his eyes for a moment and opens them. "I've…I'm not scratching, okay? I j-just…I have this feeling every time I look at Nick's place. That someone is there. And I wasn't lying about the light's being on. I've seen them light up more than once, Dean."

"But, Sam, they checked the place out, there was nobody. He just disappeared."

"But—"

"Look, man, I know you're freaked out, okay? We'll stay at Ellen's if you want. If our home is making you uncomfortable. But think of it like this. The first place the police searched after the disappearances started happening again was Nick's house. Don't you think they'd have found something?"

"Maybe they missed it," Sam says, stubborn. He knows he's right about this, dammit.

"I don't know, okay, Sam? But if they looked more than once, don't you think that they'd have found at least _something_? No one is that good, dude. Not even that bastard Nick. There has to be some evidence, right?"

Sam bites his lip, nothing making sense to him anymore. Dean doesn't believe him even though he said he will. He won't listen. He needs to talk to… maybe Cas. Cas always listens. Cas gets it. He won't – he won't—

He stumbles when his foot catches on something. "Shit."

The snowy ground is coming up to meet his face but before he can fall, Dean's arm snags him back and holds him up. Sam moves forward and looks back, wondering what tripped him up.

His eyes blow wide open. "What the fuck?!"

It's a hand. A human hand.

_He fucking tripped over a human fucking hand._

He walks back, despite the fact that he can _hear_ his heart throbbing in his chest, following the path of the hand. If this is somebody lying passed out, they need help, and he—

His jaw drops when he sees it.

" _DEAN!"_

Long, deep gashes cover the torso, having torn through the fabric of the clothing. Dark hair is matted with congealed blood that runs down one side of the face, standing out in stark contrast against the white snow. Dead, horror-filled eyes stare back at Sam.

It's Michael.

"D-DEAN!" he shouts again, falling onto his back, still screaming and scrambling away from the body.

He barely hears his brother over the thundering in his ears.

" _How?! It was his car!"_

_Dean is yelling, his voice half-broken, half-angry. Sam clutches at the strands of his hair as he cowers against the door, feeling nothing but guilt. If he hadn't said anything, his father would still be alive._

" _Dean, calm down, son, your brother—"_

" _I can't fucking calm down, Bobby, my dad is_ dead _!" Dean's voice cracks like a thousand mirrors splintering. He sniffs, his voice thick when he talks again. "And it's because of that man. Sam…he…shit!" Dean stops, a sob emanating from him._

" _Aw, kid." Sam hears shuffling and he peeks through the cracks in the door to watch Bobby gather his brother into his arms. Dean holds on a moment, shoulders shaking, Bobby keeping him together while Sam falls apart on his own because Dean's crying. Dean never cries. Shit. He should never ever have said anything. What if something happens to Dean too? What if Dean hates him now?_

" _How did we not get him?" Dean asks, a few minutes later. He sniffs again and Sam watches him wipe his eyes while his own well up._

" _I don't know. As per the judge's verdict, we didn't have proof that Nick was driving the car. Hell, they still haven't found him. We even tried lookin' for that brother of his, Michael. But like Nick's wife and kid, he's gone too. He's probably dead or close to it at this point."_

" _How would that have helped us?"_

" _There was a small chance maybe he knew something that we didn't. Something that could have helped us at least gather up some evidence. Doesn't matter anymore."_

" _Screw this. Screw all this shit. I can't keep Sammy here anymore, Bobby, he's freaking out."_

" _What are you gonna do?"_

" _Take him away. He deserves better…"_

"Thanks, Cas. I owe you."

Sam clenches his fists and swallows back a mixture of rising emotions. Dean is with him again.

"Hey, buddy, I need you to calm down…" Dean goes on to talk, but his voice echoes everywhere. Sam can't hear him.

Sam gasps in small puffs of air. He can't breathe and – and… _no, he wants to die, wants to die because his dad is dead and it's his fault_. It's why Dean's always angry when Sam talks about Nick, why he hasn't moved on. Sam is the reason that John's dead.

" _You won't tell anyone."_

_Sam puts the blade against his skin and cuts. You cut deep, along the radial artery. He knows. He knows. He needs to – needs to do this because_

_Because Dad left and never came back._

_The blood leaks out, trickling in slow, red drops. He cuts more. Deeper. Sweet pain. So sweet. Exhilarating. Little rivers. And blood and blood and blood. Everywhere._

_At least Dean's okay. Dean won't have to worry about him anymore. Dad is dead because of Sam and Dean will never want to live with Sam. How can he ever face Dean like this?_

_Better if he's gone. Yeah, it's better if he's gone for good._

_Hecanthecanthecant_

"Sammy, please. Look at me. Tell me what's happening? How do I fix this?" Dean's arm is around him, pulling him close and he doesn't deserve this because he killed Dad. He killed Dad he

Sam gasps, tears filling up his eyes.

" _Sam, can you talk to me? Tell me if you remember anything?" says the woman in front of him._

_Sam hates it here. He wants Dean. Sam stays silent, arms crossed against his chest. He's not telling anyone anything. He'll never tell anyone anything anymore. Especially after what happened last time._

_It's better like this. Better to stay silent._

He can't see. Spots of black and red and white dancing like a wild kaleidoscope. _He doesn't want to see because they're dying. They're all dying and he can hear them…_

Somewhere from the depths of Sam's mind, Andy lets out an agonised scream.

The tears are breaking free, dripping out of Sam's eyes. He doesn't know what to do. They need to get out but Dean's called Cas and the police are coming. His stomach rolls. He feels sick and shaky and horrible.

"Dean!" Sam reaches out for his one anchor.

"Sammy, right here. I'm right here."

He clutches onto Dean. He doesn't want to be here anymore. He can't do this. He can't. His head and mind are spinning. Black. White. Red. A sob ripples out of him and Dean is shaking him. "Hey. Hey."

"I want to go home." Sam wipes at his eyes, but the tears aren't stopping. "P-Please, can we g-go back?" His voice is wrecked, shaking, and he can barely get the words out.

"Sammy, don't, man…"

"J-J'st… Please," Sam's breath hitches, chin trembling, and he swipes and swipes at his streaming eyes.

"Hey, Sammy." Dean's arm is around him, squeezing him, and Sam feels his brother's forehead rest against his temple. "Calm down. Come on, buddy."

"Wanna go h-home."

"I know. I know, kid. Just a few minutes, okay? The police—"

Dean cuts off, pulls away and Sam hears sirens in the distance. He struggles to breathe, coughing, as another sob wrenches out of him. He feels lost, loose, and he doesn't know what to do but he can't be here… he can't take it. "D-Dean, please."

Dean's hand comes to rub the back of his head. "Okay. Okay, buddy, come on."

Sam takes Dean's help to get back to his feet. He drags his sleeve over his face and eyes again, the weight of his own body feeling heavy and leaden as Dean supports him. They walk slowly, and Sam doesn't even realise they've passed Cas until Dean greets him.

Sam is trembling violently as they start the trek back home. The tears pour down relentlessly, unstopping, and his vision is blurry. He deliberately doesn't look back at the muffled sounds of people talking, sirens blaring. His mind is thinking and thinking, in overdrive. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Michael's dead. How is that possible? Did Nick kill him?

No. Nonononono.

He needs to get Dean out. He needs to get them both of out of here. Far, far away from Lawrence.

"Sam, talk to me?" Dean says, holding him close and making sure he doesn't stumble because Sam is fucking useless and he can't walk and can barely see and

Yet another part of his bullshit that Dean has to deal with. Sam will never stop being a burden.

"H-Home." Another sob. He can't stop. His mind loops and turns and focuses on running the fuck out of Lawrence. Dean can't die.

"Hey, we are going home. Just breathe, bud. Five minutes."

Need to leave need to leave need to leave

"What?" Dean asks him, leaning closer. Sam needs to sit but they have to get out or, or…

"Tell me. Hey." Dean cups his neck, tries to calm him and Sam thinks he's going to be sick or pass out or die. He's going crazy.

"It's okay," Dean whispers as Sam sways, and Sam feels his brother hold him with even more strength. "You're okay."

"H-Hurry."

"Yeah. Yeah."

"N-No, you don't get—" Sam swallows, and he can't—

"You wanna sit? What is happening?" Dean's hand is rubbing at Sam's chest, his shoulders. "Sammy, do you need to sit?" He starts to lower Sam when he doesn't reply, but Sam pushes him away, frantic.

"N-no!"

"What?"

"We need t-to hurry. He'll get us. Get you. _We need to hurry_."

"Hey, sit for a minute. Just a minute. You need it."

" _No_." Sam gathers everything he has to take the next step forward and then the next and he blinks, clearing his vision. The tears are drying, adrenaline pumping through his body because they need to go.

Dean catches up with him, hands hovering, and snagging onto Sam again when he wavers. "You're scaring me," he says. "What's going on?"

"He'll kill us," Sam chokes out, voice strained. "Like he killed Dad. He's going to kill us."

"Sam, no one's killing us, okay?" Dean says, forcing Sam to stop anyway, clutching him tightly so Sam can't walk away. Sam's heart speeds up as he frantically looks around him, expecting Nick to pop up any moment. Michael is up there and Nick must be just here. Hiding. Waiting to pounce. To kill Dean.

"Nothing is going to happen, do you hear me? I'm here. I'm always here. Nothing bad is going to happen while I'm around," Dean's voice stern yet gentle as Sam keeps looking around. Nick is —

"Hey." Sam feels Dean's hand shake him and he snaps back. "You listening to me?"

Sam nods, panting sharply while his heart pounds. Being out in the open makes him feel on edge. "Inside. Want to go inside. Dean, can we please go home?" Sam knows Dean means well but he can't be here. Can't stand, waiting.

"Okay, we'll go home. I promise. But first I need you to calm down. Sammy, I need you to calm down."

Sam's gaze focuses on scared, green eyes and he realises Dean is worried for _him._

"Sam, breathe, dammit."

He nods, his brain finally registering the instructions. Sam focuses on Dean. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. He needs to do this. He can't. Dean can't get worried too. He needs to pull himself together. Sam holds on to his brother, his breathing mimicking the rise and fall of Dean's chest.

His knees start to steady, heart settling just a little. He's still shaking, partly from the cold, but he feels better. He still can't get the urge to run out of him, though.

He takes in a sharp breath. He's been falling apart so much lately. Why does he keep having fucking panic attacks?!

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I don't…I just…" _I don't feel good._

"Don't. You don't ever have to be sorry about anything. We have each other's back. As always," Dean says to him, starting to guide them back home. "Let's get you back so you can have some of your stupid tea and maybe we'll watch some—"

No, no, Dean's not getting it.

"We can't. We need to get back."

"And we are," says Dean. "We are going back home, Sam."

They enter their lane, and Sam stops. "Dean… we need to. We need to go back to Omaha."

"What?!"

"Nick will kill us. Please. He told me not to tell anyone and I did and Dad died that night. I can't—" He needs Dean to know. He needs him to understand. "Please."

"Sam, you're not making any sense."

"We can't stay here, we need to leave."

"Sam—"

"Don't you get it?!" Sam's voice cracks as he rounds on his brother.

"Get what?"

"I told on him. I told Dad about that night and he died. And now Michael's dead too. He'll come for you, Dean. And I can't…what if he…please." Sam swallows, tears threatening to overwhelm him again. "I just want to go back. I want to get out of here."

Okay, okay," Dean says. "First, I need you to calm down and breathe like I asked you to. Can you do that?"

Sam nods and tries to keep it steady.

"Good. I'll just call Ellen to tell her that we're leaving, okay? Then we'll pack up."

"Okay." Sam wrings his hands, going to sit on the floor, his back to the sofa as he watches Dean pick up his phone and dial Ellen. Dean tries a few times, annoyed, and then throws his phone onto the sofa. He then looks out the window and curses. "Damn snow. I can't get reception here."

Sam rubs his eyes as Dean crouches beside him. "Okay," he says, "how about you start packing up? I can't get reception. They must still be at the crime scene, and I can tell her there. I won't be gone long. That good?"

Dean is making to stand up, but Sam scrambles to grasp at his wrist. "No!" Déjà vu creeps up on him and he can still see the flashes of that night… of Christmas Eve ten years ago.

This is exactly how their father had died. He won't let Dean go like that. No. No way.

Dean palms Sam's fingers, trying to free himself. "Don't worry. I'll be back in no time. Nothing's going to happen to me, Sammy, I promise."

"Dean…"

"Hey." Dean gets Sam's hands off him. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Sam looks into his brother's eyes again. His heart is speeding again, switching back to panic mode and he hates how it's been going off and on today and he just wants to go back to Omaha and sleep for a week. But they need to do this too. Tell Ellen. They can't leave suddenly after a murder like this, without phone reception. She'll get worried.

Sam swallows, tries to calm himself again. "I believe you, Dean, I do, but…" _What if Dean doesn't come back?_

"You what, Sammy? Tell me." Dean cups Sam's neck.

"Dad left. He didn't come back. What…what if you don't, either?" Sam whispers, not wanting to say it louder. Because then it would make it more real. He doesn't want it to become real.

"I'll come back. I promise. Have I ever broken a promise, Sammy?"

Sam shakes his head. "No."

"It will only be a few minutes. I'll run so I get back faster," Dean suggests.

The unsettling feeling in his stomach doesn't disappear. But he then nods. Dean never breaks a promise. Dean lets his hand stay on Sam's neck a few minutes, and then gets back on his feet to go outside. Sam watches him and gets himself up a few minutes later so he can go back to his room and pack.

He dumps his belongings into his bag without even thinking. He needs to hurry with this so Dean can come back. And he keeps thinking of Omaha, of reaching there right the fuck tonight as he throws his things in because that is the only thing which is keeping him on his feet right now.

He finishes packing in fifteen minutes and lugs his stuff to the living room. Dean isn't back and his phone is still on the sofa and Sam hopes he's on his way back. The trail is hardly five minutes away and yes, it will take Dean a while to talk to Ellen (who, now that he thinks of it, would want to talk to Sam too about his statement). And Sam knows he'll have to talk again when they find and arrest Nick but for now he doesn't care. They need to get out of here.

Twenty minutes pass, then twenty-five, and it's come to a full half-hour. Sam repeatedly glances out the window, uneasiness level slowly rising. Dean should have been back. He promised.

His head hurts and he buries his face in his hands. Sickness rises in his stomach. _Dean, please come back, please come back…_

Please.

" _Dammit, the phone lines must be screwed up," John says. "Dean, look after Sam, I'll be right back." He is already heading out of the door before Sam can say anything._

Thirty-five minutes. Sam's hands clench and unclench. Something is wrong, he knows it. Dean should have been back by now.

They should never have come to Lawrence. They should have stayed back in Omaha. They—

Sam's heart misses a beat when he looks at Nick's house again. He blinks once. Twice.

Nonononono.

The light is turned on in the opposite house.

He gets to his feet and runs out the door. Dean is there. Dean is in that house. He knows. He can feel it. Dean is in trouble Dean should have come back Dean _DeanDeanDean_ …

Sam is crossing the street before he knows it. He barges up the porch steps to 1626 and kicks the door open.

_Sam watches in confusion as Nick keeps side-eyeing Michael._

" _Uncle Nick, is something wrong?" Sam asks him._

_There is moment of tension there; a minute of silence. But Nick shakes his head. "Nothing, Sam, I'm fine."_

_Michael chuckles as he walks over. "Don't worry, Sam. Nick is just nervous because I'm here. I'm the one who taught him to paint. He got better at it, and he's recognised by that style now, but," he winks, smiling easily, "it was me. And he feels guilty about that but he's just a pain-in-the-ass little brother."_

_Sam shakes his head. "Is that a universal nickname for all us younger siblings, or—?"_

" _We big brothers come armed with it," Michael assures him._

_Sam shrugs. "And, in defence of the rest of us, Uncle Nick is a great teacher."_

"No," Sam chokes, his mind reeling as he crashes into the doorframe and slides to the ground. He clutches at his head, feeling like he's being pressed and suffocated from every direction.

" _Pass, Andy, pass!" Sam yells, gripping his lacrosse stick tightly._

" _Catch!" Andy swings the ball into the air and Sam tries to reach for it but he can't. He watches as the ball soars high above his head and bounds off the street to the opposite house, the sound of shattering glass making them both flinch._

" _Fuck," Andy curses, throwing his lacrosse stick down. "Fuck, fuck."_

 _Sam squints at the house and turns to his friend._ " _It's okay. That's Uncle Nick's place. We'll explain to him that it was an accident. Come on."_

_They cross the street and look around at the windows, trying to find out which one they broke, but ultimately realising it's the one that peeks up from the cellar. Sam sighs and rings the doorbell, again and again for ten minutes, only to get no answer. He folds his arms across his chest. "I don't think anyone's home, Andy."_

" _The cellar window, opens, though," Andy nods, pointing at it and gesturing Sam so they can go look. "We can get in. Think he'll mind if we take the ball back?"_

" _I don't think so. And I'll explain it to him tomorrow," says Sam. "Come on."_

_They get in, one-by-one, holding the window open so they can get out just as soon. The basement smells dank, horrible, like something's dead and ripe, and Sam holds back a gag. "Ugh," he says, "yuck."_

" _I know, dude." Andy holds a hand over their nose as they pass the paintings, all placed against the walls messily, and Sam can see the ball from where he is._

" _I found it," he mutters, and Andy follows him. When he bends over to retrieve it, his eyes fall on the canvas before him._

_Sam startles, clutching the ball in his hand as his eyes widen. "Oh fuck."_

" _What?" Andy is beside him, squinting at the painting, and the next moment, he's taking two steps back._

" _Isn't that…?"_

" _It's Mrs Miller," Sam replies, swallowing down the urge to puke. Because it's not just a regular portrait of her. It's not flattering or beautiful or artistic. It's Mrs Miller, but her face is distorted in pain and sadness, blood painted onto her features, her eyes dead and haunted._

_Sam's breath catches in his throat. It can't be. This can't be without reference. And, if that's so…_

_Oh God._

" _Sam?"_

_Andy is pointing to the rest of the paintings around them and Sam eyes each one, noting the expressions and the haunted faces; all in pain, all looking as though… as though they're dying. And everybody has another thing in common._

_These are all the teenage boys who've been missing over the last few weeks._

" _A-Andy…"_

" _We need to get out." Andy finishes the sentence before Sam can. He grasps Sam's wrist. "Come on." They start to sprint towards the window, trying to be quiet because if Nick is still in the house…_

_Sam slips on something and crashes down to the floor._

" _Sam!" Andy is back, helping him to his feet, and Sam gets up. He turns around and instantly wishes he hadn't. Because he'd just skidded on fresh blood._

_The smell of decay and death overpowering his mind and body all at once, Sam leans away and retches loudly, only to clamp a hand to his mouth. Oh God, he's gotta keep himself together. He's gotta—_

_There is a loose floorboard beside the place where he fell. The blood is smattered around it, as though someone was bleeding there, or as if…_

_As if a body was stuffed carelessly underneath._

_Sam swallows down a second urge to retch._

" _We-we need to s-see—"_

" _We don't need to see anything," Andy tells him, clutching his elbow. "Let's get the fuck out, man! This dude is crazy."_

" _He's been taking all those people," Sam whispers, shaking his head. "I've gotta tell Ellen, okay? Before he does this again." He swallows the bile that rises up his throat before going forward and pulling the floorboard open._

_The smell is worse when he does it. Sam sits back on his haunches, clutching his abdomen when he retches again, his eyes watering when he looks in._

_It's a deep, smaller cellar. And it's filled with bodies. Decaying, teeming with maggots and flies, and dead and decomposing._

_And over them all, Max and Mrs Miller, and…_

_Nick._

Nick is dead. Nick died ten years ago. Sam can't catch his breath and he can't see and can't get up…

" _Sam, come on, man, let's get out."_

_Blood cakes Nick's arms and torso as Sam can see deep cuts inflicted through the clothing. Nick's eyes are blown wide open, and all Sam can see is fear and pain in them. He stumbles backwards. Nick's mouth is lying open in a silent scream._

" _Andy, we have to get out."_

" _That's what I've been saying." Andy sounds shaky and as terrified as Sam is. They head back towards the window, Sam looking around until he spots a pile of books in the corner of the room. He rushes and picks up a large bunch of them and sets them in a pile below the basement window._

" _Come on," Sam urgently, starting to climb up them. He's halfway out through the window when Sam feels himself being pulled by his shirt collar._

" _No!" he yells, but something stings his neck. He catches a glance of Michael behind him; a mad look in his eyes, and then Sam knows no more._

Sam lays sprawled on the ground, his glasses a few feet away from him, a large crack on the left lens. He fights off the black that threatens to cloud his vision, as he desperately struggles to get to his feet. He trips over his own feet and sharp pain shoots up his head as he crashes into the opposite wall.

It was Michael. But… now Michael is dead.

Who killed him?

" _Death is a beautiful thing to paint." Sam struggles against his binds as Michael mixes colours before them. "The fact that you can capture death onto a canvas is a mesmerizing experience." He looks like he's in a trance, like he's met an angel of some sort. He glances sharply at Sam. "Who do you think taught my stupid brother to do the feather texturing? It was me. And? He adopted the style like it had been him all along. He never understood why I wanted to paint pain. Never got me. Kept me locked up in this basement and no one knew about me. That had to change when I escaped and held his wife and that stupid brat captive, though…"_

_Michael grins. "The whole town knows about me now. He had to give in and let me have my way. And he can take that stupid feather-painting technique away from me, but…"He gestures to all his paintings with a flourish. "He could never steal that. And you…"He gives them a smile that sends a shiver down Sam's spine, before reaching for a knife and slowly walking towards them._

" _You will know how good I am, when you watch me work. I'm going to immortalise both of you. Of course, your families will miss you, I can't deny that, but look at the bright side; you are my new masterpiece!"_

_He sounds nothing like the man Sam had met previously. Instead he is crazy, cold-blooded; mania and fanaticism reflecting in his dead-looking eyes. Sam feels like he could puke._

" _Please," Andy begs, struggling against his and Sam's bonds. "We won't tell anyone. Please let us go."_

" _Tch-tch," Michael clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he walks over to them and kneels down next to Andy. "If only I could. Don't worry, I'll make it quick. Well, quicker than the others."_

" _Please."_

_Michael ignores him. "This will only hurt for a second. Consider this an easy way out. My other candidates were bleeding and in pain for hours when I painted them."_

_And without warning, Michael slashes the blade across Andy's stomach. Choking, pain filled howls and gurgling noises fill the room as blood spurts out in a steady stream through his torso drenching Andy and even dripping onto Sam._

_Sam screams and screams and screams. He can't – he can't… no, no._

_Andy. He struggles, tries… there has to be something. He can't die. He can't die._

_His bonds catch on something as Andy sags into him from behind. Sam fingers the thing, feels around for it, and realises it's an iron nail sticking out of the floorboard. He drags the rope across it, once, twice, eyeing Michael as he starts to pain. If Sam can get out, he can get Andy help too. Andy could die. He needs medical attention and…_

_Andy slumps, cool, and Sam works harder. Michael turns back at them and grins from his place. "Looks like your friend is in shock already. Just a few minutes and it's your turn, Sam. Let me just get the base ready…_

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

_Sam feels Andy's weight on him getting heavier and heavier as time passes. The nail loosens the rope, cutting it, as one stand comes off. Michael doesn't notice._

" _You won't tell anyone," he whispers, continuing to paint as Sam fumbles with the ropes. "Because you're next."_

_The ropes are getting loose and Sam frees a hand. And he's just done that when Andy falls back, his ragged breathing turning into two long gasps before stopping._

_There is silence. Andy is dead._

_Sam thinks he's going to pass out. His best friend is dead. Andy is fucking dead and he can't… he has to get out. Has to tell Ellen… save the others._

_He lets a tear fall out of his eye as he keeps his eye on Michael, finally freeing both of his hands._

_He is up on his feet the next moment._

" _Come back, you—"_

_He hears Michael's palette and easel crash to the floor, then the muffled thump of Andy hitting the floor, and he runs. He climbs up the books, pushes the window open, and crawls out before Michael can reach him. Bile rising up his throat, he runs back across, narrowly missing a honking car, and he bangs and kicks at the door of his house._

" _Let me in!" he screams, kicking again, ringing the doorbell, and when John opens the door he's falling forward, only to be held by his dad._

" _Sammy, what—is that blood?!"_

_Sam throws his arms around his father, holding on for dear life as sob after sob breaks free from him. He's shaking, howling, tears dripping, and John is tugging him in._

" _Hey," he says, pulling Sam in and shutting the door. "What happened?"_

_Sam can't answer him. His body quakes as he gasps and sobs and tries to disappear inside his dad's embrace. He is taller than John, but he still manages to curl himself into the hug, his father stroking his hair repeatedly and trying to soothe him. Andy is dead. Nick and Max and Mrs Miller are all—_

" _Sam? What's wrong?" John stammers, pushing him onto a sofa and getting to his knees before him. "Hey, who hurt you?"_

_Sam wipes at his eyes. "He k-killed… I d-don't know, I d-don't know!" Another sob breaks free, and Dad's hands are going up and down Sam's arms, trying to soothe him, trying to calm him._

" _Slow down, Sam. I don't know what you're saying."_

_Sam's breath hitches as he keeps looking back at the front door, expecting Michael to burst in any moment. He realizes the locks aren't done and every hair in his body stands up in alarm._

" _No!" He is on his feet again, running towards the door, bolting it shut with shaky hands._

" _Sammy, calm down. Talk to me. Nothing's going to hurt you," John says, pulling him back from there. "Do you need water? Do you want me to call Dean?" His eyes are worried as he guides Sam back to the sofa, palms framing Sam's face. "Tell me, kiddo."_

_Sam clutches at his father's shirt desperately swallowing as he tries not to jump up and run again. "Andy and I-I-I were playing lacrosse. T-The ball went a-a-across the street and crashed into Uncle N-Nick's basement. No one was home so h-he and I c-climbed through the win-window there. Dad, there...bodies." Sam gulps._

" _Whose bodies?"_

" _Missing p-people. It's Michael. He's k-killing them!" Sam yells, burying himself more into his father's arms. "He killed Uncle Nick. He killed A-A-Andy. Dad, please, he'll kill me too!" Sam cries out in fear, clutching on his father tighter as more sobs tear through him._

Sam scrabbles, trying to find purchase on the floor. He needs Dean. He needs to get them out of here. He doesn't know who's killing everyone now and they're right there, free to kill more and… he-he needs to tell Sarah…

 _Carl got takeout from this place once._ Sarah's voice outside of the burger joint comes back to him. Carl is probably right in this house now. How is he going to break the news to her? How will Sarah react to Carl being dead when she was so sure he wasn't?

_Carl got takeout from this place once._

Wait.

Sarah had said…

_I'm in Lawrence because my brother lives here and he's been missing for two weeks now._

How did she… how did Carl get Sarah takeout if he was already missing?

Unless…

_Good thing I knew the way, right?_

_You had a hard time asking me out that first time. I saw Dean convince you into it. I don't know what he said, but you two were really talking something intense. And you still waited to get home to call me after that._

How had she… how had she known? She had left the party in front of Sam's eyes. At least, he'd watched her leave, and then… how did she know where he lived when he'd never mentioned it to her…?

Oh God.

He should have thought of this. Her husband died a few months ago. She's been lurking around all the investigations… and then all these things she knew.

The killer is Sarah.

It fits. It fucking fits. She paints and she seems to know and…

Did she kill Carl?

Why would she do this?

A dark shadow looms over him and his vision refuses to clear up. It's Sarah this time and he needs to tell Ellen and save Dean… but he can feel his consciousness dangle there, out of his reach, and he can't… can't…

The shadow closes in, and a pair of arms reach out to him, only to punch him hard on the cheek.

The remainder of Sam's vision throws in the towel, head spinning, and he knows he's going to die tonight.

_Sam doesn't recall how but when he next looks up he's in Dean's arms, shaking. Dean has been asking questions continuously ever since Dad hollered for him to come downstairs. But Dad also said not to tell Dean about what Sam saw, until they talk to the police. And Sam won't. Dean can't die. No._

_John is running a hand over his face as he paces impatiently, holding his phone to his ear._ " _Dammit, the phone lines must be screwed up," he says. "Dean, look after Sam. Don't let him out of your sight and no matter who knocks, don't open the door until you know who it is on the other side. I'll be right back."_

" _But, Dad, what's going on?" Dean asks, holding tightly onto Sam._

" _I'll tell you later," John says to him. "Wait here. Don't move."_

" _All right."_

_Sam sticks to Dean, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean holds him, muttering something into Sam's ear, but he can't make out over the overwhelming urge to run or pass out. He can't tell Dean. Dad said not to. No._

_Andy is dead._

_Sam whimpers out a sob, and Dean buries his lips into Sam's hair. "Hey," he says, gripping tightly onto Sam's shirt. "I'm here." Sam's fucking seventeen and he shouldn't be like this and he knows Dean will tease him for it tomorrow and—_

" _Just calm down," Dean whispers. "It's gonna be all right."_

_John gets his stuff ready and heads to the door. "Just take care of your brother, all right, Dean? I'll be back."_

_Dean nods. Sam wants to stop his father from leaving. What if Michael gets to him? But no matter what he does, he can't seem to get it out of his mouth so he leans into Dean and hopes it will be okay._

Someone is dragging Sam by the collar of his shirt. He scrabbles, trying to escape but he can't. His head is pounding, making him feel like he needs to throw up. He needs to find Dean… needs to find Dean…

_Sam jumps violently at a knock on the door. It's been half-an-hour since Dad left and there's been no trace of him. It's snowing heavily outside as the weather gears up to thrust a blizzard at them, but their visitor only brings more anxiety into Sam._

_What if it's Michael?_

_There is another knock and Dean frowns as he calls out. "Who is it?"_

" _Ellen. Dean, it's Ellen."_

_Sam cries out when Dean starts to pull away from him but his big brother runs a hand through Sam's hair. "It's okay. It's just, Ellen. Give me a second."_

_Sam looks in fear towards the front door as Dean opens it. Ellen walks in, wrapped in layers and jackets and scarves as she pulls her gloves off, expression sombre. She glances at Sam, eyes widening slightly on seeing him before they turn to Dean._

" _I couldn't get through to either of your phones," she says._

" _What's wrong?" Dean asks her._

_He presses her lips together. "I need you to come with me. I'm sorry, I… you have to identify a body."_

_Dean's jaw drops. "What?!" Body… Oh God, no. If Dean's been asked it means…_

_Ellen hangs her head in sadness. "I don't…know. I need you to come with me, Dean. I'm sorry."_

_Dean nods and Sam can see him gritting his teeth as he turns back. "I'll be back, okay? Just a few minutes"_

_Dad is dead._

" _Cas is with me if you need him." Ellen gestures behind her and a very haggard-looking Cas appears at the doorstep, draped in his trenchcoat. "Can you look after him?" She nods at Sam._

" _Yes, Sergeant."_

" _I'll notify you if we make any developments," she says. "You stay here until Dean gets back, okay?"_

" _I will do that."_

_The sympathy in Cas's blue eyes is unmistakable as he comes to sit with Sam on the sofa. Dean buries his face in his hands for a moment and leaves with Ellen and Sam begins pulling at his sleeves, thoughts racing in his head again. He hopes they just made a mistake. He prays it isn't dad. It can't be. It can't be…_

_Cas tries to talk to Sam, tries to fix him dinner, but Sam feels like he might either cry or vomit if he does either of those things. He wants to die. He can't… if Dad's gone…_

_Cas's walkie-talkie crackles to life. "We've got an identification on the body." He scrambles to his feet, widened eyes immediately falling on Sam as he tries to rush to the kitchen, but Sam hears it anyway._

" _It's John Winchester."_

_The world stops. Sam can hear his heart thundering as Cas gawks at him, half inside the kitchen and half out, like a fish out of the water. And Sam feels the last of his resolve drain out of him._

" _W-Where… Dad?" He can't stop the single tear from falling out of his eye._

" _It was an accident." Cas says, resigned, as he comes back. "Sam, I'm…"_

_Sam gets to his feet. "I'm in my room."_

" _Sam—"_

" _P-Please leave me alone."_

_Cas doesn't reply as Sam sprints upstairs._

_He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have told Dad._

_He shuts the door to his room behind him, sobs bursting out of him once again. No, no, this isn't happening… Dad…_

_Dad is dead._

_Sam killed his father._

_He doesn't want to live he doesn't want to live he doesn't—_

_His eyes fall on the knife lying on his table. He'd used it that afternoon to cut and eat an apple while he'd been studying. He had meant to put it back but…_

_He picks it up._

_He shouldn't have said anything._

_He lets out another sob, heading to the bathroom. This is the right way. This will fix everything._

_He shouldn't have fucking said anything._

_Sam eyes the blade as he sits in the bathtub, running his fingers over the sharp edge of the blade. This way, Dean won't have to clean up. Just run water and…_

_He can drain Sam's blood and all of Sam's failures out of his life._

_Because Sam killed their dad._

_Sam holds the knife against his wrist. It's better like this. It's better for all of them. One cut over the radial, deep enough, and…_

_He feels his racing pulse with three fingers before pushing the knife in, drawing a line over his pulse-line. He grits his teeth together but makes no sound as the cut burns. Blood seeps out in a steady stream and Sam leans back against the bathtub._

_It's better like this._

_Better._

_He welcomes the darkness as it takes him away._

Sam can hear gasps and grunts as he is pulled further, but he can't make out who it is.

(It is Sarah).

He remembers again that he is going to die today. Dean too. And he never got to say goodbye to Ellen or Jo or Cas… the rest of their family.

" _He can't remember anything." The psychiatrist is a gentle woman. Smart and crisp and empathetic. She's been talking for an hour now, but Sam isn't paying attention. He fidgets and fidgets with his sleeve and Dean grabs hold of his wrist._

_Sam doesn't know why he's here. Can't remember why Dad is gone. Can't understand why Dean is so sad._

" _It's like a defence mechanism," the woman continues. "His brain has locked down those memories to protect him. It's probably for the best."_

_Dean is bundling Sam into the Impala next, promising not to let anything hurt him. He remembers seeing Lawrence fly by as Dean drives them away. Far, far away from their past, for Dean to carry this burden alone._

_Everything is like a blur, almost like a nightmare. But the horrible part is, it was never a nightmare._

His head hits something as he's pulled over what feels like stairs. The dark cloud begins to grow along the edges of his vision. "No," he grunts as he desperately pushes against the hands holding him.

"Dean," he breathes, his vision starting to go dark again.

"Dean," he calls out once again as his slumps towards the ground, unable to fight any longer.

**~o~**

Sam's head is throbbing in a low ache when he wakes up. His body hurts along with it, pain nagging at every bit of him, and it feels like his mind is spinning. His eyelids are held down shut by what seem like dumbbells and Sam can't, for the love of all that is holy, get himself to open them. Flashes… images… wisps of memories come back to him. From today. From… _before_.

He remembers.

He now remembers _everything_ and he wishes he didn't, familiar pain searing through his chest as he realises he was in the house when it all came back. He was… _is_ in Nick's house and… and…

 _Sarah_. She did this.

The pain transforms, makes him aware of everything else around him. _Nick's house_. Shit. No… not again. He needs to get out. He needs to open his eyes… they won't—

His breaths start to quicken, heartbeat picking up pace and he can feel something… a rope… cutting into his arms, his shoulder and chest, and someone's warm back is pressed against his, like that time with Andy.

Except, it's not Andy. He can recognize the sound of those breaths, those little, frustrated grunts, anywhere. It's Dean. And just like that with a rush of adrenaline, the dumbbells from Sam's eyelids are gone.

He opens his eyes, taking a moment to feel the warmth of his brother. No matter what, Dean's presence has always been a good thing - but today it's not.

He can't believe he managed to drag his brother into this. Into this unfinished story from ten years ago. Dean needs to not be here. Dean needs to be angsting over his flashcards and complaining about college. _No, no_ , this can't be happening. It can't all be over like this. The dead bodies… he can't be in there with Nick and the rest of them.

He struggles against the ropes and behind him, Dean seems to realise that Sam is awake.

"Sammy." It's a whisper so quiet, Sam knows only he heard it. He tries to let Dean's voice flood him; calm him, but _they need to get out_.

"How did she get you?" Sam whispers back. Sam had passed out like an idiot, but Dean is actually pretty huge, if not as big as Sam is.

"Dart gun," Dean says, and that explains it all. Michael must have done that too, when it came to getting his victims back down here. Sarah probably learned from him.

But the real question is, how are they supposed to they get out now? The last time, Sam managed to cut his ropes against a nail sticking out of a floorboard but now there's nothing like that to help. But he's not going to give up. Sam escaped this once and he'll get out again. And he keeps that in mind as he struggles more, trying to loosen the ropes.

"I tried," says Dean, guessing what Sam's trying to do. "Whoever it is, has been pretty thorough."

"Shit," Sam grits out, but doesn't stop in his efforts. He needs to find something. Any loophole. Anything Sarah left out, did not plan properly. His head is heavy and all he wants to do is sleep and forget everything again but they need to… they need to get out now before she comes in. Before they're buried for good under this house too. Before they're remembered as haunting faces made by paint on canvas.

The next moment, Sam's heart skips a beat when he hears a voice. A _male_ voice. "Must say, that old loony Michael thought this place out pretty well."

The voice is strange, echoing through the wooded room and very obviously not Sarah's. Sam clenches his fists. That's not possible. She definitely has something to do with this. It all fit. It only made sense. Sam had done the math. He can't be wrong. But if it means this is not Sarah… he didn't—he didn't trust the wrong person? He knows he'd do anything to be wrong about her being the culprit but…

"The police doesn't even know or suspect that there could be a slew of bodies in there. And they checked too. Morons." A small breath of a laughter in the end, almost inaudible.

_It's not Sarah._

The voice is distant, it's as though the man who owns it is standing outside the cellar, on the stairs leading to it. A moment later there are footsteps, slow and calculated, and Sam gulps in air. No, _no_ … he doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not today.

He presses himself against Dean's broad back. He's trembling all over and his stomach is churning, its contents sloshing about dangerously. He remembers being tied up with Andy like this. Remembers Andy growing cool and each minute of him dying, as Michael gave him a slow, painful death. He remembers the silent whimpers against a duct tape, and the smell of paint as a brush stroked repeatedly over canvas like they were old lovers…

"Hey, I'm here," Dean whispers again. "Calm down, kiddo, we'll get out. I know how to get us out."

Dean is lying because Sam can hear his quick breaths, and he just said a while ago that he had no idea how to get them free. He is lying. How are they going to escape, bound like this? No one can get them out of here. They're going to die. Just like Andy and the others. Like Nick. Like _Dad_.

Sam's chest tightens some more. The room is suffocating him, the musty air rising in the shape of two hands and holding on to his throat. No. He doesn't want to die. He isn't ready… not like this… He doesn't want to be locked under that floorboard forever. And Dean—he was never a part of this. It was all Sam, even all those years ago, and now, and Dean…

"Sammy." A hand is clutching at his shaky wrist. Sam's head is spinning, ears ringing, and Dean's warm palm squeezes him again. He doesn't say anything; not to calm down, or to stop worrying. Dean is just here, making his presence known. Sam swallows past the lump in his throat and closes his eyes as he leans into his brother.

This is all his fault.

The cellar door shuts, a dark figure entering the little room and moving immediately to the shadows to blend into the blackness. The footsteps are louder, more shuffling about heard from them than the slow moves from before. Someone's puttering about in the darkness and puffs of dusts rise from the floor, lit by the moonlight from the cellar window. Sam sees a pair of jean-clad legs in the little slats of light but their assaulter's face is still hidden in darkness.

"That loony was inspired, though," the strange man says. "I'll give him that. Too bad you two freaked the hell out of him. He tried to run away. I couldn't have that. God knows what he'd blurt if he met the police or something. Of course, I didn't know that this bastard existed when I first came in, I'd heard rumours about his brother, Nick. Of how Nick apparently killed his own wife and son, and a teenaged boy, and was responsible for many disappearances and a hit and run." The man steps out into the light, polished shoes reflecting the white-and-silver. "That hit and run was your poor dad, wasn't it, Winchester?"

His face gets illuminated as well, and Sam's jaw drops. " _You_?" Dean struggles against him, and Sam can't— _how is it possible?_

Their attacker shrugs. "Why do you think _she_ freaked out? Earlier today?"

"Sam," Dean breathes. "Sam, do you know this asshole?"

"I – I don't—"

"Tell him, Winchester. Tell your brother who I am."

And Sam takes the man in, with his dark hair and his all-too-familiar nose and smile. He swallows. "This is Sarah's brother. Carl Blake." It makes sense but it doesn't. Sam had never thought her brother was directly involved. She'd said that Carl didn't fit the pattern, and Sam should have guessed.

" _What?"_ Dean mutters, obviously astonished.

Carl shrugs. "Hey, you're surprised! Though, I wouldn't say anyone would have guessed."

Sam clenches his jaw. "She knew about this?"

Carl arches an eyebrow. "You mean Sarah? Of course she did. What 'tabs' do you think she kept every day? They were on me. It was to make sure I didn't get caught."

There is anger, rage building up inside Sam, thick and sharp and he's shaking against Dean, his brother leaning back and trying to calm him down. So he was right, at least partly. He wishes he weren't, but he was.

"She played me," he says. "All this time, she knew." He takes a deep breath. "And honestly, I thought so too. That she was involved. I should have known. That's how she knew where I stayed without me telling her anything." He swallows. "Was she keeping an eye on me and Dean too?"

"During that ridiculous cop party? Yeah," says Carl. "Of course we knew about your famous family, so she freaked when you introduced yourself and hung around trying to see if you were talking about it. But you didn't, and she realised you were just into her," he shrugs. "Dating you was like two birds and one stone. She didn't play you, though. She just protected me.

"She even likes you, actually. Got all nervous on that second date of yours and I spent hours putting up with her preening."

" _Why_?"

Carl gestures towards Dean. "If it were your brother, wouldn't you do it too?"

"You're a murderer," Sam spits at him. "You kill innocent children; _minors_ —"

"I'm just inspired and Sarah knows that," Carl replies. "When I first came here and heard about Nick Miller, I thought, _no way_. I've seen his fresco at the church. And I wanted more. So I sneaked in here. The house was empty and I normally would have checked the attic but in a fortunate twist of fate I came here first. And imagine what I found." He grins, eyes sparkling like he's found his messiah, and Sam feels the revulsion boil in the pit of his stomach.

"Michael came back two months later, lucky as I am. I learned from him. I was ready to bring in more boys, and Michael was ready to tell me his secrets. And he is right." Carl picks up a roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors from the table beside him. "The ultimate inspiration comes from pain. Especially when you're responsible for it."

He pulls a switch, flooding the little room with light. Then he kneels down before Sam, smelling of apples and making Sam want to gag at that very memory because _Sarah_. All his deductions all hit him quicker this time, thoughts spinning in circles and going back to the same things over and over. She _knew_ , and Sam took her out and slept with her, and – and he should have realised. Now Dean is in this and they'll both die and goddammit, _Dean doesn't deserve this_.

Carl grins as he cuts off the duct tape. "Time to start my masterpiece, Sam Winchester. An artist painting another dying artist, How beautiful. Poetic. Just like Michael's last masterpiece of his brother." Before Sam can reply, Carl presses the tape over his mouth and moves on to Dean's side.

"You son of a bitch, you do anything to my brother, and—"

"Shut up." There is a ripping sound, a struggle, and Dean is soon fighting the tape on his own mouth. Sam presses himself against his brother and feels Dean do the same as they lean into each other. His heart beats fast, fluttering, as Carl sets up the easel and his palette. There is silence for a long time while Sam tries to think, think how to get out of here, and Dean leans more and more into Sam as Carl finishes setting up his canvas.

He picks up a knife. "And now for dessert." As he approaches Sam, Dean struggles more, making the ropes cut into the both of them. Sam feels a drop of sweat trail down his face and dangle at his jaw. He wants this to stop. Just wants it all to be over.

_Oh God._

Carl leans before him again. "You're going to be immortalised, Sam. Smile." He shakes up Sam's sleeve, smiling when he sees the old scar there. "How beautiful," he whispers. "Did you make that cut all by yourself?"

Sam doesn't answer, doesn't nod, and refuses to look into Carl's mad, familiar eyes when he is made to turn up by a firm finger on his chin. Another calloused finger touches the scar and Sam flinches.

"This is perfect," Carl says. "I have a guide. Thank you."

That is the last thing Sam hears before the blade cuts into his wrist, at his radial pulse, and draws a straight, deep line along it.

**~o~**

Pain.

Unbearable, burning pain.

Piercing his flesh, tearing at his blood vessels. Burning his nerve endings.

Pain, eating at him, scalding away the edges like he's been doused in acid.

_You've gotta put ice over it so it won't hurt. Did you stop because of the pain?_

Amelia. She'd been Sam's classmate at school. Always bullied and tormented, she chose a corner everywhere and kept to herself. Sam, who didn't like bullies, spoke to her anyway, and she was a good girl. A good, smart, kind girl. She moved away from Lawrence a year after Dean took Sam to Omaha. Ever since, he isn't in touch with her.

Sam gawks at her, room blurring around her curly hair, and she smiles.

Yeah, she says. People won't speak to me because I'm the girl with the cuts, right? But you're always good to me, Sam. I brought you flowers.

He sees them, blobs of colour, and can't make out what flowers they are. He wants to open his mouth, say thank you, but he can't. It's too dry, and his throat is closed up.

Amelia smiles, bending forward as her lips brush against his cheek. You know what is best for the pain, though? she whispers to him, it's kicking it in the ass. And you're strong enough to do that.

" _Very good, Sam."_

Amelia is gone, replaced by another slow, loud voice. It echoes in his ear. Sam is sweating, cold droplets falling down his forehead like little rivers. He can hear his breaths. His heart, fluttering uselessly in its cage. He opens his eyes.

It's black and white all around. He can hear brush on canvas. Smell paint being mixed. But he can't see. He doesn't know if he can breathe anymore either because his chest is seizing more and more as each second goes. Something wet slips down his palm. Someone is wiggling against his back, aborted screams echoing through the air, through the dank, musty little room.

And that voice again. Carl. Talking softly.

" _You… this is how I killed… others… none of… 'em were … graceful as you… Sam… I can see why… sister… smitten."_ A snort. "… _painfully good… honest… all… crap… she likes… you're just…"_

Sweat is streaming down his neck and chest now. _So cold_ … So, so cold… what is going on?

" _Sarah… hate me… killing you… get over… be… my side…"_

More wiggling from the warm body behind Sam. It's Dean… it's Dean… He—

He tries to breathe. He needs air. He feels like some old machine that's shutting down, his body behaving like a crashing computer hard disk. Something's wrong inside of him. So wrong.

Two fingers land on his thumb. They're familiar and warm and they clutch onto him. They feel like a thousand anchors, holding Sam and keeping him from sinking.

He sways. Dean. _Home_. The blackness beckons to him, kissing him and hugging him and pulling him over. The light hurts his eyes even though they're shut.

_Dean._

" _What… hell?!"_

Carl is frantic. Sam can hear… something. He remembers the two fingers on him. _Dean_. And it all loses meaning when the pain doubles. So bad. So, so bad. He wants to die. He killed Dad. He's killing Dean.

It _hurts_.

_Cantdothisanymore_

" _Hands… air… see them… bastard… now!"_ The blackness is close by. Sam takes her hands in his.

" _Sa…? …ean?"_

Thudding. Gentle palms on Sam's face. There are more noises and he can't make them out. What are they saying? Who is talking? Why won't they stop? It hurts so much when they talk… why won't they just stop? Something is ripped off his mouth. Dean is moving away and Sam is cold, so cold…

" _Cas… been cut. We… get Sam out…"_

" _I'll… 'mbulance… carry?"_

"… _house… yeah."_

"… _upstairs…"_

More footsteps.

" _You… the… to remain silent… you say… will… court…"_

"… ' _ammy…?"_

Someone's forehead is on his. _Dean_. Strong heartbeats in his ears. The warmth is beautiful. Comfortable. Sam just wants to stay here. And he doesn't know what the voice is saying but it is the best thing he's heard in a while.

"… ' _ll be okay… Sa…"_

Arms around his shoulder, underneath his knees. Someone cradles him close like he's a child. The same, comforting voice. The familiar warm neck against his face. And loud, loud sirens.

 _Dean_. He's home.

Sam breathes out a sigh and lets the blackness take him wherever she wants him to go.


	6. Christmas Day

"' _He stroked her hair_ ' _._ Wow. They're getting stupidly cheesy."

The tunes of the Christmas carols playing on the hospital corridors blend in with Dean's dramatic narration and Sam can't help but snigger. He tilts his face to his big brother, listening to the mock disgust in Dean's voice as he continues with his teasing. "I mean, do you always read chick stuff like this, Sam?"

Dean's been reading Sam's novel out loud to him for the past hour, and he spent half that time complaining how he particularly hates this, although Sam has to disagree with that because Dean seems to enjoy doing all the voices and weird accents, even though the characters in the book are American.

Sam does, however, roll his eyes at Dean's latest comment. "It's got a strong woman as the central character, Dean, and that doesn't mean I can't like it just because I'm a dude. Read on."

"Oh, you're gonna like this."

"I know. Go on."

Dean snorts, the crinkle of paper audible as he turns the page. "' _It was soft and heavy. He got a_ '… seriously?"

"What?"

Dean puts Sam's novel down. "What are you even reading these days, Sam?" A carefully held-back grin breaks across his features, and Sam knows that Dean is going to get merciless. He doesn't know the reason for it, though.

Sam blinks. " _What_?" Dean's expression is similar to when he's about to begin a prank war and Sam can't say he likes it. "What is it, Dean," he sighs. He's not really in the mood right now and Dean knows that, but sometimes, his big brother can be really annoying.

Dean leans forward, holding out the page for Sam to see. "' _He got a_ '… oh God _…_ " he starts to laugh, shaking and sniggering, and Sam tries to see but Dean reads it out before he can. "He got a hard-on like a—like a _f-fire hose_ … Sam! _Fuck_!"

And that does it. Dean's collapsing back, face twisted up as he laughs and laughs, the sound filling the room. He rocks in his chair, holding the book, and his eyes start to leak with mirth as Sam just watches him exasperatedly. It's really nice to see Dean this way and it seems so long since they were happy, but—

Dean is fucking pointing at him now, and laughing as though Sam somehow came up with that ridiculous euphemism for a boner.

_No._

Sam frowns, the grumpiness infiltrating him in a jiffy. "You done?" Fucking annoying big brothers.

"N-No," Dean bursts into another round of laughter, wheezing as he tries to come up for air. "Oh, oh f-fuck… _fire hose_ …"

And the annoyance vanishes, just like that. Sam had almost lost Dean. They had almost lost _each other_. And if that had happened…

Sam smiles, still not as entertained as his brother, but suddenly marvelling the miracle of surviving through yesterday and being able to be angry at Dean for teasing him again. Sam realises he needs to be more grateful. Fight with Dean less. Although, from his side, he'll never stop pulling his big brother's leg either.

Meanwhile, Dean shuts the book as he puts it aside, wiping his eyes. "You know, when people usually read to their little brothers in hospital rooms, it's soul-searching stuff. Not—"

"Fire hoses?" Sam asks him, chuckling a little himself.

"Is that how you come too, Sammy? Like a fire hose?"

"Ew, Dean, TMI."

"So you admit to it."

"Sure I do. If you admit to the fact that Cas is your boyfriend."

"Fuck off, he isn't."

"And I don't come like a fire hose." Sam wrinkles his nose. "It's so weird to even say that."

"Liar, liar," Dean teases him, shaking his head. "You probably make it fire hose-y enough when you cry after sex, though."

" _Fuck you_."

"Yeah, no, please don't. I mean, you're cute, Sammy, but I'm not into you." Dean lifts the breakfast tray and gets up to put it on Sam's table. "Come on," he says, wheeling it, and reaching for the buttons to adjust Sam's bed. "I read that stuff out to you like you wanted me to. Now you eat like _I_ want you to."

Sam waits for the bed to tilt up, pulling the tray table towards him. He wiggles against the thin hospital gown as he picks up and bites into the bland, soggy hospital sandwich. They tried to colour code it in Christmas colours with the tomatoes and lettuce and Sam really appreciates the effort.

He'd woken up early this morning to a very frantic, panicking big brother and a relieved Cas. Ellen and Bobby were by his bedside too and while Bobby had hugged him, Ellen had held him in her arms and kissed his forehead. So really, it's nice to see that Dean's loosened up ever since.

He can't remember much from last night. At least, he can't recollect what happened after he'd been cut, but Dean says he lost a lot of blood and was in shock. Ellen had turned up just as all hopes were lost and she'd arrested Carl for first degree murder and kidnapping. She'd also found the rest of the bodies, including the ones from ten years ago, and Nick. She'd taken an entire confession from Carl later at the station and with a judge's ruling, Carl will spend the rest of his life in prison, where he belongs.

"I remember, Dean," Sam had told him a bit after he'd woken up.

"What do you remember?" Dean asked him.

"Everything." And the tears were back, unexpected, unbidden, filling his eyes and crawling down Sam's cheeks. Dean's face fell and he got off his chair to sit beside Sam on the bed, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"It wasn't you."

"Dad—"

"Sam." Dean pressed his lips together for a brief moment. "That dude… Michael, was a fucking psycho bastard and he'd have come after you, had Dad not tried to go the police that day. And I'm glad he did, and that…" he shrugged, smiling, "that I have your sorry ass by my side."

Sam felt another tear leak out and Dean moved closer, pulling Sam up into a careful hug, hand cupping the base of his neck as he did so. Sam fisted his brother's shirt, feeling Dean's palm go up to brush the back of his head for a second before resting on his neck again, and letting his brother hold him through the pain.

"Sam?"

He breaks out of his reverie, looks up and realises that he's been silent a long time. "Nothing," he says, "just wondering how come Ellen knew to find us." He shakes a stubborn strand of hair off his eyes for the umpteenth time, and is about to brush the crumbs off his hands to bun them up, when Dean gets up and gathers Sam's hair, smirking as he produces a hair-tie from his pocket.

Sam lets him. He knows Dean and he knows that this is Dean dealing with almost losing him. And he can understand that.

"Ellen found your footprints in the snow," Dean mutters, settling back on the armchair. "She'd come to check on you because you freaked out when we found Michael, and she panicked when we weren't home and she couldn't reach either of our cells. She was leaving when she noticed that both of us had left the house, but my prints stopped outside of 1626, while yours went up to the door, and neither of us was back." Dean shrugs. "She attacked Carl and saved our bacon."

Sam shakes his head. "She's fucking badass, man."

"Isn't she?" Dean clears his throat. "You, though. Don't pull that shit again, okay?"

"Is this another chick-flick moment?" Sam asks his brother, smirking.

Dean smacks the back of Sam's head tenderly, like Sam's about to break. "Shut up, dude." He pauses while Sam takes another bite of the sandwich. "You gonna meet Sarah?"

Sarah was arrested for being an accessory to her brother's actions. Her name, however, brings only anger to Sam. He knows she needed to protect Carl, but Carl was also a psychopath who murdered innocents and there is a line to protecting such a person. Besides, it wasn't like Carl didn't know what he was doing, either. He knew every bit of it and Sarah still protected him.

He clenches his jaw. "No."

Dean opens his mouth to say something, but then he decides against it. "You ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

"What?!"

"I packed our bags. I'm getting you out of here. That's what you wanted, right?"

"Y-Yeah." Sam's throat tightens.

"So Merry Christmas, Sammy." Dean gives him a wan smile. "I'm taking you home and we never have to come back unless you want to.

"How's that for my first Christmas gift to you in ten years?"

Sam reaches out to clutch Dean's forearm and his brother gets up, sitting next to him on the bed and throwing an arm around Sam. "You gonna get all emo now?" he asks, as Sam cherishes his presence, feeling a million anxieties ease at once. Dean looks at him, into his eyes, and shakes him lightly. "Hey."

Sam lets himself rest against his brother's shoulder. God, he's _exhausted_ beyond all physical, mental and emotional definitions of it and he can't even describe that. "Just wanna go home," he says quietly. "I'm so tired, Dean."

"I know," Dean says, "I know, little brother." His hands come to frame Sam's face as his lips brush once over the top of Sam's head. Sam shuts his eyes and breathes deeply. He hasn't felt so safe in ages. Dean is here.

"We're going back home," Dean whispers it like it's a mantra. "I mean, I know we probably gotta come back to testify against the bastard, but we'll be okay. We got each other's backs right?"

Sam nods, biting his lip. Dean sees right through it. Sam can't ever really hide much from his brother. "You scared? To come back?"

"Not scared. More like...I don't know if I can face him. See him again, see _her_ again."

Sam looks up as Dean lays a hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Don't worry. I'm gonna be right there with you, like always. We'll get through this, I promise."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says, giving him a small smile. _Safe_ , he thinks.

They sit in comfortable silence for while. Sam is absently playing with his bedsheet when Dean clears his throat. He looks up in curiosity.

"Dean?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Sam frowns, uncertain as to what seems to be bothering his brother. "Sure."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Dean asks after a pause.

Sam's frown deepens. "Tell you what?"

"About the case." _Fuck._ "That you heard Cas talk about it, and then Ellen. Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Sam gulps and shifts his gaze to his bed sheets. "I...It's just...ever since we got here, you were always on edge. You seemed to think that I would break at the slightest touch. I felt like a basket case, man. I...I thought maybe you'd think I was too... _weak,"_ Sam says, his expression turning one of disgust on the last word.

"That maybe you'd decide I wasn't strong enough to deal with it. Maybe you were right through. I wasn't strong enough," Sam's bottom lip trembles and he presses them into a thin line.

"Really?" The surprise in Dean's voice makes Sam look up. "Sammy...shit. I never thought you were weak. Hell, I think you're one of the strongest people I know. No one goes through the shit they did and still come out on top like you did, man."

"You don't mean that."

"Yeah, I do. I do mean it. You're not weak. Never have been. It wasn't me thinking you'd break, Sam. It was me thinking I'd lose you. Like Dad. I couldn't...I can't lose you again. I almost did last time. And I wasn't willing to take chances anymore. I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sam gapes, shocked. This is the last thing he expected Dean to say. "Wow," he manages. "You don't need to apologise. It's...wow. This shit is so screwed up, isn't it?"

"You can say that again," Dean scoffs. "It doesn't matter anymore. We're getting away from all this crap."

And for a moment, Sam lets himself believe that he will, indeed be able to leave everything that happened, right here in Lawrence. And either ways, Dean says it, so it must be true. Because, even if there's anything else, Dean will make it go away.

Just like he always does.

**~o~**

"Sammy?"

Sam looks up from his bags and tucks Dean's gift swiftly into his jeans pocket when he hears his brother at the doorway. It's still Christmas day and they arrived home earlier this afternoon, Sam having been kept at the hospital only for some observation. He was resuscitated for fluid and sewn up last night and the doctors were already happy with him by breakfast. The next few hours were just difficult to get through after that, because Sam can't stop being jittery and giddy about leaving this place. About going back to Omaha and never coming back here ever.

The whole town is decorated and chirpy today, all red and green and baubles and trees, flakes of snow floating down, light and pretty while children and parents enjoy and celebrate. Sam had watched them as Dean drove him back from the hospital, and he realises that he no longer envies these people. After last night, he's just glad to have Dean back, really.

"I've got something for you," Dean tells Sam, shaking him out of his reverie.

"Okay."

"Come with me."

He pauses in his tracks for a bit and then follows Dean to his room, thinking of the Christmas present he's got his brother. It bulges into his thigh from inside the pocket, reminding him of every moment that he's been meaning to give it to Dean. The problem is, they're in a good place now and Sam is sure Dean doubly hates Christmas, so he doesn't know if he should wait.

What will Dean say?

Sam keeps walking after Dean, lost in thought and staring at the floorboards until his brother comes to an abrupt halt, making Sam bump into him.

"Dude!" Dean whispers, indignant, and moves away, gesturing to the inside of his room. There is something obviously different about it and when Sam crosses the threshold to see it, all he can do is gasp out loud.

Decorated on the far wall, beside Dean's bed, are colourful Christmas ornaments, all hanging from strings and in the shape of a tree, complete with a star on top. There are more decorations around them, streamers and confetti and paper angels stuck onto strings and accompanied by tiny beads of light, which are entwined around the ornaments. Sam takes a deep whiff of the scent of evergreen fragrance that Dean has managed to spray onto all of it and turns to his brother, eyes widened.

"Dean!"

"You like Christmas, so…"

Dean trails off, face colouring a little as he moves away and pulls his curtains shut, plunging the room in semi-darkness. He flicks a switch on and immediately, the multi-coloured lights that have been twirled around the decoration come to life, flashing red, green and golden, and Sam takes a step closer, blinking to make sure he isn't dreaming, when he sees what's really on the baubles.

They're photos. Stuck to the surface of each ornament are pictures of their family. It starts at the bottom from when their mom was alive, with their dad, with Dean, with a toddler Dean and a baby Sam, and all in this house. From different stages of Sam and Dean's babyhood and Dean's toddler years. There are pictures of Sam lying in Dean's lap, of Dean's chubby arms hugging a bundled-up Sam, of their father carrying them both and laughing into the camera, like a true happy family.

Then it's just them and their dad, and pictures of their vacations and their birthdays and Christmas. and Dean's school graduation. It slowly thins out to just Sam and Dean as it starts with Sam's own graduation and his college days, and their friends at Nebraska, all reminding Sam of some of the best years of his life.

In the end, on the star on top, is the most recent picture they have that Cas had taken a couple of nights ago when they'd marathoned _Star Wars_. Sam is sitting stretched out on the couch, legs in Dean's lap as they both hold up beers, and they're laughing like every trouble they have in the world is gone. Sam remembers that moment. Cas had cracked some naïve little joke and he and Dean couldn't get themselves to stop laughing. They'd gone on until they had tears in their eyes, and until their cheeks and stomachs couldn't take it anymore.

This picture is always going to depict one of the most memorable nights of Sam's life. Cas had been a good part of his childhood, of growing up, and having him back was one of the most important things that took place on this trip and he is glad they got to reconnect. He knows why Dean was angry with Cas now, and while it was irrational on Dean's part, he can understand why Dean was pissed. He'd already lost John that night and Sam had been a close second. And Sam can't even imagine the horror for Dean.

He knows his big brother still carries that burden in his heart. And one day, Sam thinks, as he rubs absently at his new wounds, he will talk to Dean about it. He will reassure Dean that both Dean and Cas did the best they could that night; that he is grateful to them both, and won't let this happen again.

"So are you gonna tell me I'm awesome, or…?"

Sam snorts at Dean's words. He can't even believe Dean went through the trouble of putting this _Christmas tree_ together for him. That his brother actually shoved aside all the bad memories that he carries from that Christmas to do something like this; something so difficult and painful for him.

At the same time, Sam can also believe that Dean did this, because he knows Dean can practically do anything when it comes to Sam.

_Including protecting him if he were a psychopathic killer?_

He swallows, remembering Sarah, and clenches his jaw. He'll take a while, but he thinks he won't be so angry after a few days. _Hopefully_ , he won't. He doesn't want to be. She isn't getting out of prison that soon, though, so he has time. And he will talk to her once he can sort himself out a bit. Right now, it's just all painful and he wants no part in this.

Sam pushes Sarah away from his mind. "Dean," he breathes, getting back to the present, "you didn't need to do this."

"I said we'd start this year, Sammy," Dean replies. "And this is the beginning." He turns to Sam and cups his neck for a moment, squeezing lightly. "Merry Christmas, kiddo."

"Dean, if it's painful because Dad—"

"No, it's not," Dean tells him. "I lost Dad ten years ago. But I also got you back from the brink of death on this very day and it's two times now. If that ain't a miracle—"

"Aw, cheesy, man."

"Shut up, bitch."

Sam grins at him. "So. You're really okay with this?"

"Of course I am. I promise, all right?" Dean doesn't even grin back, proving his own earnestness and Sam knows he's not covering up and lying. And he feels his heart warm at that.

He reaches for his pocket and produces his own gift, an envelope. "So you'll not curse me if I give you a Christmas gift."

"Son of a—" Dean laughs as he takes it from Sam. "When did you do this?!"

"Just before we left from Omaha. I always give you a gift so don't act so surprised."

Dean starts to get the staples out. "Did you write me a love poem this year, Sammy?"

"Fuck off."

"Hey, okay! Grumpy much?"

Sam crosses his arms to watch Dean while he pulls the papers out of the envelope, to open them. And Dean does that, looks at them, and just stares at them for the next five minutes. There is heavy silence, illuminated by the Christmas lights sparkling from beside Sam. He doesn't even know if it's too dark for Dean to read it; if he should pull the curtains—

Ultimately, Sam freezes at his spot and stares back at his brother, heart pounding against his chest because Dean isn't fucking talking. "Dude," he says, "say something!"

The envelope and papers fall out of Dean's hands to the floor as he moves forward to wrap his arms around Sam. Sam hugs him back, as tight as Dean is holding him. He looks down at the lease papers for the apartment he's rented at Lincoln for him and Dean. "I just figured," he says, "I could help you more if I was staying closer. Make more flashcards and shit, you know. We'd also save money with your living facilities and all."

Dean pulls away. "What about your job?"

"Hilda has a friend in Lincoln and she's referred me to her firm," Sam tells him. "And I'll take up teaching at your college." His bites his lip. "I just thought… after all that crap with Ruby this year, you moved out almost immediately, and just… it's been a rough few months, so…" _I just want to be home._ He leaves that unsaid. Because home, for Sam, isn't an address or a room. It's Dean. It's always been Dean.

His brother seems to understand as he bends to pick the lease papers up. "I get you," he says. "Let's get out of here now. We'll appoint a realtor and sell this house first thing back at Omaha." Dean has a few more days with Sam in Omaha now. Initially the plan was to spend the entire holiday here and get Dean directly back to Lincoln, but Sam is glad that's been scrapped.

He can't stop smiling as he heads to his room to get his bags ready for the ride back home.

**~o~**

"So you're coming over to Omaha for New Year's right?" Sam asks Cas as they hug. He pats his friend on his back once.

Cas pulls away. "Of course. And now that your brother seems to approve, I will visit you more often."

"Cool," Sam says. "Stay in touch, okay?"

"Sam, ten years ago…"

"There is nothing you could have done," Sam interrupts him. "I was in a bad place, and…" he feels a wave of uneasiness as he shakes back his sleeves to reveal the bandages. "What I did, Cas, was not on you."

Cas nods, unconvinced, and Sam foresees a session of lecturing his brother and his friend about how his suicide attempt that night was not their fault. When he feels better about talking about the whole thing, though. Just not today. Not this soon.

"Sam—"

"Stay in touch."

Cas resigns. "I will."

He gives Sam a small nod before heading over to Dean and Sam watches them hug, watches them hold on for a moment more for the years they lost out on being friends like before. Dean clears his throat when they break apart, and pats Cas's shoulder. "Don't be a stranger."

"I'll text you. I like the emoticons."

"Awesome." Dean looks weirded out. "You won't stop being nerdy, will you?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No." Dean smiles. "And don't change."

"I promise to remain constant."

Their eyes exchange something; an apology or an understanding, and it lasts only a moment before it's gone. A rumble of a chuckle emanates from deep down Dean's throat and he opens the car door. "See ya, Cas."

"Bye, Dean."

And Sam knows now that there is finally closure.

He and Dean already met Ellen and Bobby earlier today, and Cas was the only person left to say goodbye to. He stands there as Dean pulls the car out, looking forlorn, and Sam knows that Cas doesn't have many friends. He was tempted to ask Cas to move to Nebraska and get a job there, but he guesses Cas will do it himself if this really kills him.

They pick up coffees from Garth's place while they leave and say goodbye to him, receiving tight hugs that they never asked for, but return generously. A few minutes later, Dean reaches the outskirts of the town and smirks at Sam. "Say goodbye to Lawrence, Sammy. Forever."

"Goodbye," Sam repeats, bored, not even glancing at the rear-view mirror for it. He reckons he can try, but can never forget this town and the memories attached with it. He can never pretend to overlook some of the people he met there, and he will never break relations with the friends he has in this town. What he will attempt to whitewash from his memory will be 1626, Eldridge Street, the one place that gave him hopes and happiness, and took it away from him in the same breath because of Michael.

He is, however glad that everyone found out about Michael, because Nick was a really nice man and Sam won't forget him either. Even if the fact that he kept his brother locked up from the world, is kinda gross. To be fair, though, Michael _was_ a psychopath.

All he wants above everything, even though he's said it and thought it multiple times in many embarrassing way for the last two days, now, is home. And Sam watches his _home_ , driving the Impala with his sunglasses on and singing Zeppelin loudly, and he relaxes into his seat and lets himself be thankful for everything he has right now.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading the fic. Before you leave, a few things we need to say:
> 
> 1\. Boykvngs is a talented, amazing person, and please leave her lots and lots of love for all her effort [here](http://boykvngs.tumblr.com/post/139983062983/1626-eldridge-street-illustrations-you-can-read).
> 
> 2\. Sam's degree from Creighton is as real as the university itself. Look it up! :)
> 
> 3\. This fic was almost named "Sam's Fabulous Hair" because it was mostly just about a very traumatised, extremely pretty Sam with amazing hair but we graduated from that and made it an actual story.
> 
> 4\. Anatomy sucks. The three of us, the authors and the beta, are all med students and even though Anatomy makes you want to drop your jaw (because the human body is _brilliant_ ), it really sucks. It's hard.
> 
> 5\. You can find the authors' Tumblrs here: [SPNxBookworm](http://spnxbookworm.tumblr.com/), [Winchesterpooja](http://winchesterpooja.tumblr.com/)


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